Rearrange Me 'til I'm Sane
by cottonmouth
Summary: Set a few months after the events of ‘Further And Further Out’. Sam is still not entirely himself when a vision of their father in trouble sends a reluctant Dean off to track down John Winchester. AU, Contains wincest.
1. Chapter 1

Summary – Set a few months after the events of 'Further And Further Out'. Sam is still not entirely himself when a vision of their father in trouble sends a reluctant Dean off to track down John Winchester. AU, Contains wincest.

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) This takes place after 'Further And Further Out', so you'll probably want to read that first :)

I'm back, and I bring more crazy!Sammy! Apologies to everyone who wanted another part to FMFC, it should be coming at some point, but this wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it… This is my attempt to incorporate a cool Monster Of The Week into my own little AU, hopefully with some kind of success :) This is also the first time I've used a quote from a song as a title (Sins And Tragedies doesn't count, that was paraphrasing :) ) but the song (actually the whole album) goes so well with crazy!Sam that I couldn't resist! So everyone go and listen to Pink Floyd's 'Dark Side Of The Moon' because it is awesome :) Let me know what you guys think, and the next chapter should be up on Saturday…

Chapter 1

Flowers were pretty.

Especially these particular flowers, with petals soft like worn cotton and stems smoother and greener than anything man-made, and leaves with thousands and thousands of tiny veins that were shiny on the top and rough underneath…

"Sammy?"

The middle of the flower was the most amazing thing though. The long, stalk-like part with yellow fuzz on the tip that came off on his fingers when he touched it and smelled like candy, and he lifted his hand to his mouth, because anything that smelt that _good _had to taste even better, right?

"Sam, no! Don't put that in your mouth, it's dirty!" A hand. A hand that wasn't his, pulling at his wrist gently. The hand _looked _like his, kind of. The same blunt nails, the same long fingers. His were more slender around the wrists though, and the palms not as broad. One of the fingers had a silver ring encircling it that flashed in the light, and Sam immediately reached out to touch, to stroke and feel the body-warmed metal with the tiny scratches on the underside that indicated wear.

"Sam, you with me here or am I talking to myself?"

Oh. Talking. Right.

"Dean?" Sam looked up, seeing his big brother standing over him, concern wrinkling his forehead. The sun was setting across the field behind Dean, casting a fiery glow over the earth that eclipsed the green of the lush grassland. It touched Dean's hair as well, turning the tips into burnt caramel-gold. A breeze touched his face, cool with autumn and tasting of dying brown leaves. Dean tugged his leather jacket around his torso. Sam closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of the chill air combing through his bangs.

Dean smiled uncertainly, like he wasn't sure Sam was one hundred percent there. Sam stifled a laugh. It did funny-tickling things to his chest and throat. "I'm okay, Dean."

"Yeah. Good. Well, Pastor Jim's cookin' up some steaks inside. You wanna come in now, tell him how you want it done?"

"Okay." He nodded compliantly.

Dean waited for him to stand, hovering protectively as he had taken to doing recently.

The old Sam probably would have bitched him out for it, made a stand for his independence. And a part of him did want to tell Dean to back off. But the logical side of his brain, what little there was of it left, said that it was better to have Dean around when his mind wandered. Especially when it happened in inconvenient places, like the middle of the Walmart parking lot. And it wasn't as if he could complain. He _did _get lots of petting and attention, which was nice, even if it made him feel kind of like someone's overfed house cat.

Dean took his arm carefully, tugging him toward the rectory. He held on until they got to the big door leading through to the kitchen at the back, which was good because it left Sam free to focus on the crunch of gravel beneath his sneakers and the interesting food-smells drifting out the open door.

Pastor Jim looked over at them with a smile as they stepped inside. In front of him a big pot was boiling on the stove, and he poked at a frying pan holding a large steak. "Sam. Did you enjoy the sunset tonight?"

Sam pulled his wandering attention away from the cooking food. "Yeah, it was pretty. The flowers smell nice."

"They do. Maybe tomorrow you can help me weed some of the flowerbeds at the front of the rectory while Dean gets started fixing some of those pews in the church?"

Dean stiffened beside him. From the corner of his eye, Sam saw his brother's mouth open like he was about to object, but a subtle shake of Jim's head cut him off before he could begin.

Sam frowned. Why was Dean upset? Had he done something wrong? He only said he liked the flowers.

The most frustrating thing about his _condition_, as everyone except Dean seemed to refer to it, was his inability to follow a thought through to its conclusion. It was like having a series of snapshots in his head; each one different and interesting and he could spend hours staring at all the minute details, but there was no way to link them together. Did this one come first, or this one? What happened afterward? He'd given Dean his word that he wouldn't go searching in people's heads anymore without their permission, and sometimes it was just _so tempting _to take a peek and see what he was missing. But he'd promised Dean, and a promise to Dean meant something, even if he couldn't always recall why.

The first time his mind had wandered into someone else's thoughts without Dean's permission, he'd started crying. Embarrassing, but nothing shamed him more than admitting to his big brother that he'd broken his promise. It had happened one morning, in the soft and sleepy minutes before he'd fully woken up. Everything had felt warm and cosy; the thick bedspread tucked up tight under his chin, and the steady tick of the old-fashioned brass alarm clock Jim kept in his guest bedroom, the heavy weight of Dean's arm around his waist, his breath licking at the back of Sam's neck. And his mind had just _slipped_, water running through his fingers and spreading in a growing puddle. Dean had been dreaming in violet; flicker-images of himself and Sam, hot kisses shared languidly between them. His hard-on was a thick press against Sam's lower back, and it was the feel of it that brought Sam into the present. He'd thrown himself out of bed, his body clenched like a sore muscle. Dean had woken up, stroked his head gently and told him it was okay if he did it by accident. But Sam hadn't forgotten how _bad _it felt to disobey Dean.

"Sam? Are you listening?" Jim's calm voice broke his concentration and Sam looked up, the lingering worries floating away like they'd never been. "Do you want to go and wash up before we eat?"

Dean had moved to the chair in front of the big kitchen table while Sam had been thinking. He stood at Jim's words, reaching out to take Sam by the arm again.

"No Dean. Let Sam do it himself." Jim said, putting a hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean's face tightened and Sam took a step toward him before remembering _not where other people can see, secret, secret_.

"Okay. Wash up. I can do that." Sam smiled reassuringly at his brother. Dean still didn't look happy.

"You call me if you need help, Sammy."

"Okay Dean."

The wallpaper on the landing was interesting. There were raised patterns that tickled his fingertips when he stroked them, and shiny parts in muted pearlescent colours. The edges didn't meet up exactly in the corner, leaving a half-millimetre gap where the plaster showed. Sam ran his fingernail down the gap, feeling the bump and scratch of the wall underneath.

Wash up. He was supposed to be washing up.

Feeling obscurely proud of himself for remembering, Sam made his way to the bathroom at the end of the landing.

The tap squeaked when he turned it and he wanted to try it again. But Dean was waiting for him, and Sam didn't want to make his brother come and get him. The projected grey worry hovered in big clouds around the kitchen, growing denser with each moment Sam took. So instead he pulled all his concentration together, repeating the simple instructions over and over so he wouldn't forget.

_Wash up. Turn the tap. Run water over hands. Use the soap. Run water again. Dry hands with the towel. _

He completed the task, only allowing a moment's distraction lathering up the slippery soap, but he figured soap was something everyone enjoyed playing with.

Making his way back downstairs, he made sure to keep putting one foot in front of the other, staring at his sneakers while he did it. Maybe he should have taken the shoes off inside. The carpet was getting dirty; he could see dry leaves flaking off. They got lost in the light brown of the carpet, and Sam bent to look more closely. Leaves looked funny on carpet. Not natural. He poked at one with a finger, watching it disintegrate with the touch.

"Yeah, I _know _he can do it himself, I just don't like leaving him!" The raised voice caught his attention like a fishhook in the gut. Dean was angry. He didn't like it when Dean was angry, even when it wasn't directed at him.

Sam stepped closer to the kitchen door.

"Dean, I know it's hard, but you have to let Sam figure things out for himself. How is he going to get better if he knows you'll always be there to do everything for him?" Pastor Jim said quietly.

"And what if he doesn't get any better? What if he's like this for the rest of his life, and you forcing him to do stuff on his own gets him hurt?"

"Dean, I'm not asking you to let him go wandering around town by himself. All we'll be doing is weeding the garden. I'll be there the whole time, I promise. Sam likes the garden. And despite what you say, I know you could do with some time for yourself. A few hours apart, that's all I'm asking."

Sam heard Dean sigh loudly. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and shaky. "I just don't want him to get hurt. It's not that I don't trust you…"

"It's that you don't trust anyone when it comes to taking care of Sam." Jim finished. Sam felt a brush of rose sad-affection radiate from Jim, and he let himself bask in it for a second like a cat sunning itself. "I know, Dean. But you're going to run yourself ragged worrying if you don't take a break every now and then," Jim paused and Sam could picture the sharp grin on the older man's face, the one that made him look years younger, "and if those pews don't get fixed soon, I'll make sure you're the one sitting on them when they finally give out."

Dean laughed softly. A long pause in conversation, before, finally, "Yeah. Yeah, okay, fine. Two hours. That's it."

"That's all I'm asking for." Jim said, sounding pleased.

The taut atmosphere in the kitchen had lightened to a conciliatory flush of pink. Sam breathed a little easier and stepped inside, looking for Dean's bright smile. He wasn't disappointed.

* * *

Helping Pastor Jim weed was fun. There were worms in the dirt, wiggly ones that stretched and contracted. He pulled them out of their dark hidey-holes, making a worm-pile in the grass that writhed in all different directions, like they were one pulsing mass. Jim let him, glancing over with smiles that Sam met every time.

The dirt caught under his fingernails, and he was tempted to suck them clean before he remembered Dean telling him _no_ last night. Instead he ran his fingers through the grass, feeling it slide against his skin.

"Sam, do you want to help me plant the new flowers?" Jim said, breaking the easy

silence between them.

"Yeah, okay." Flowers were nice. They were bright colours and they smelled good. Maybe they tasted good too, but he shouldn't eat them.

Jim stood, wincing as his knees popped. "Not as young as I used to be."

Sam smiled, standing in one fluid movement. Jim shook his head in mock-exasperation.

"You shouldn't show off in front of an old man, Sam. We're liable to get jealous and grumpy."

"Are you old?" Sam asked, cocking his head to one side. Something in his mind tickled as he spoke, whispering that he _shouldn't say that, rude, not polite_. He blushed. "Sorry."

Jim chuckled. "C'mon, Sam, let's go get those flowers."

* * *

"Hey Sammy." Sam looked up from the busy job of scrubbing the dirt from his nails to see Dean stepping into the bathroom. His big brother put on a tired smile, like it had exhausted him to be apart. "Didya have a good time with Pastor Jim?" _without me?_ followed silently, projected into the space between them with a jealous tang.

Sam slipped into Dean's arms before his brother could throw out any more negative thoughts. "I found worms in the dirt." This time Dean's smile was genuine.

"Yeah? Sounds exciting."

"Did you have fun?" Sam whispered, nuzzling away the sore lines in Dean's jaw.

Dean snorted. "I wouldn't say _fun_, exactly. Those pews are a bitch. My splinters have splinters." Sam frowned, pushing out with his mind, until he found

…_little spots of sting, aching, a sliver prickling at the nerves_...

and Sam pulled Dean's hand to his mouth without a second thought, sucking at the tender finger, lapping at the sore spot with his tongue. Intent on removing the source of Dean's discomfort, Sam only noticed his brother's heavier-than-usual breathing when he went strangely still.

"Uh, Sammy, I think the splinter's out now."

Sam met Dean's eyes, noted the flush on his brother's cheeks and the dark eyes. He pulled the finger out of his mouth with a pop. "Okay Dean." He said, almost a whisper, before sliding his lips over the next finger.

* * *

Sometimes Sam thought of Jess, of Stanford and his old friends and Becky and Zach. Mostly they came to him in his sleep, angry thoughts directed at him by those he'd left behind, those who didn't understand. He knew, in a vague way, that people were looking for him. It'd been amusing to see his face on the front page of a newspaper in town. Dean had gone pale upon seeing it, and hurried them home like he was expecting angry villagers with pitchforks to appear on the horizon at any minute. Sam tried to tell him not to worry, that he had it covered, but it was hard getting words out so he gave up.

No one would recognise the crazy fugitive ex-Stanford student, and not just because now-Sam looked completely different to then-Sam. Now-Sam was thinner, cheekbones prominent to the point of gauntness. He was paler too, and his hair had lost some of its lush thickness. It had grown, falling around his face in soft curtains that he could touch with his tongue. But when Sam looked in the mirror, it was his eyes that looked the most changed, and it was his eyes that caught and held people. They looked at once older and younger, some ephemeral in-between that shone like dark green-black. He looked nothing like he had.

He'd cried for Jess once, a few days after coming back to himself. It had hurt, but in a cleansing way, like shedding layers of skin and starting new. He knew he should feel bad about it, about not grieving enough for the woman he had once loved. But emotions came and went too easily for him to really take them in and hold them close. And besides, Jess understood.

* * *

What initially woke Sam was the dream, half his own unconscious, half the thoughts of the cat prowling the backyard in search of a nest of field mice. He was swept from sleep with a sense of awe that made him want to laugh. Being a cat was fun. Everything was strangely coloured and bright, even in the moonless dark outside. The cat had been stalking through the long grass at the back of the garden that Jim never bothered to cut and Sam could still feel the echo of it between his fingers and toes.

Dean was a still mass beside him, breathing deeply with one hand splayed on Sam's stomach beneath the tee shirt he wore to bed. The print of skin against skin felt hot.

Sam spent a minute exploring the texture of Dean's forearm with light fingers, feeling the bristle of short hairs and the bump of a faint scar by Dean's elbow. It was still night outside and he should be sleeping. Instead he let his eyes trail the edges of the furniture in Jim's guest bedroom, curling around the sharp corners and tracing shapes in his mind. The big antique mirror over the dresser was especially interesting, swirls of metal framing the glass in gold curlicues. Pretty.

An itch at the back of his brain was growing, heavier and heavier until it was a throb that he couldn't ignore. Sam frowned, pouted a little. This was familiar in some way. Dean said to wake him if something hurt, but this wasn't an _ouch _hurt, not really. It was something new, something he'd forgotten.

He blinked, and suddenly everything around him was different. He was outside, but it wasn't an outside that he knew. A city street spread to either side of him, tarmac dark as the night sky above. The sound of cars rumbled ominously in the background. But it was the building in front of him that caught his attention. Neon signs lit up the windows, brilliant light trapped in thin wires that hummed on his nerves like shivers, and it was an effort to force himself to read the words.

_Bar_. Sam smiled, pleased with himself. He had read, without getting lost in the colour of the word or the flavour of it on his tongue. He had read it, and now he could go back to Dean and tell him, and Dean would smile bright at him, tell him how well he did and stroke his hair.

The door to the bar swung open. It took a second for Sam to make out the features of the man stepping outside, the shadows falling in his face. But then the man turned, looked straight at him like he could see Sam standing in the street.

John Winchester paused for a second, a frown pulling the corners of his mouth down. His face looked worn and taut with tension. Then he spun on his heel, tugging the collar of his jacket up around his neck and striding away down the street. Sam watched him go, his own frown set on his face.

And then Sam was back in Pastor Jim's guest room, Dean making snuffling noises into the pillow beside him.

Sam lay still for long moments, wondering what he should do. Dean would want to know that he saw their dad, even if it was only in his head. But it was night, and Dean was sleeping. Maybe he should wait until his brother woke up. Except Sam had no guarantee that his muddled mind would even remember by the time morning came around, and Dean told him that it was okay to wake someone if he needed them.

Decided, Sam rolled onto his side to face his brother.

"Dean." Dean didn't stir. "_Dean_." He tried again, punctuating the word with a prod in the arm. Dean frowned in his sleep, mumbling something indistinct and batting a hand in Sam's direction.

Sam chewed on his lower lip. Dean wasn't awake. He _needed _his brother, and Dean wasn't _awake_.

"_Dean. Dean. Dean."_ He was pretty sure if he spoke much louder Pastor Jim would wake up too and he didn't want to disturb the whole house. He moved closer to his brother, until they were practically nose to nose. Dean looked funny from up close; his face was all blurry and trying to look made Sam's eyes cross.

"Dean. Wake up. Please." Dean moaned something, his face screwing up as he cracked open an eye.

And abruptly fell backward out of bed with a yelp, dragging the bedcovers with him.

Sam sat up, cocking his head to one side as he peered over the edge of the mattress at Dean's crumpled form on the floor. A scruffy head poked up out of the mess of blankets.

"Christ, Sam! What was that?" Dean's hair was rumpled, crease lines striping down one cheek. He blinked wildly at Sam.

"I woke you up." Sam said.

Dean stared for a second. "Yeah, you did. Any idea _why_?"

"'Cause I needed to tell you something."

Dean frowned, gathering bedding and lumping it all back on the mattress. "And you couldn't have waited 'til morning?"

"It was important."

Dean sighed, slumping down on the bed and turning to face him. He blinked, rubbing at his eyes, before visibly pushing his tiredness to one side and looking over expectantly. "Okay Sammy. What do you need to tell me?"

Sam blinked. What _did _he need to tell Dean? It was something, it was important…

Beside him Dean suppressed another sigh. "Think it through Sammy. You can do this. What were you thinking about before you woke me up?"

He bit his lip again, chewing on it as he tried to trace his trail of thoughts backward. He had done something, something good. Something Dean would be happy to hear. And then a fragment floated back to him, a luminous word glowing in the dark. "Oh. I read."

Dean paused in the middle of rubbing his hand through his hair. "You what?"

"I read. It was a word, it said 'bar' and it was bright and shiny."

Sam waited expectantly for the praise. But Dean wasn't smiling, wasn't happy. He was frowning again, deep lines in his forehead that made him look like dad…

Dad.

"Dad was there." He added quickly. Dean still didn't say anything, staring blankly at him for a second. Rolling confusion overtook the groggy just-woke-up that slowed his brother's brain.

"You had a dream that you were reading, in a bar, with dad?" Dean spoke slowly, like he was trying to connect the dots in his head.

"No." Sam shook his head, allowing himself a second of distraction to note the way the movement made his mind dizzy. "I saw it."

"You saw…" The older man closed his eyes for a second, taking a visible breath that he held in his chest. Sam pursed his lips. Dean wasn't _getting it_. "Uh, how about you run it by me again, Sammy. Where did you see dad?"

"In the _street_ in my _head_." He stressed the words.

"And…not a dream?"

"Not a dream. I was the cat in the garden when I dreamt." Sam said plainly. Apparently this didn't help Dean either, his hand coming up to massage at his temples like he was getting a headache.

"You were…" Dean started. He couldn't seem to find the right words, mouthing silently for a second before shaking his head as if to clear it. "You saw dad? Like, a _vision _saw him?"

Sam nodded so hard the bed bounced under him. Dean's head seemed to sharpen at that, and Sam felt good knowing he was helpful.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) This takes place after 'Further And Further Out', so you'll probably want to read that first :)

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, I'm glad you liked the first chapter :) Crazy!Sammy is so much fun to write, even if his mind is a scary place! The next chapter should go up after Christmas some time, so look out for it, and Merry Christmas!

Chapter 2

"He had a _vision_, Jim. And now dad's not answering his phone." Dean spoke softly but firmly. "We have to find him."

Sam looked up briefly from the kitchen table. The scrambled eggs in front of him had turned dry and cold while he was listening to Dean talk, letting the deep rumble of his brother's voice permeate his veins like a second heartbeat. Jim sat to one side of him, distractedly chewing on the same mouthful of breakfast.

"Dean, you can't take Sam on a road trip to god-knows-where. If you're going to go and track John down, you'll have to leave him here with me."

Dean shook his head violently. "No. No, I am _not _leaving Sam. You didn't see him at Missouri's, he was freaking out without me around and I was only gone for one night. Two hours _weeding_ is one thing, but days? Weeks? No." He dropped his fork onto his plate with a clatter, like that was that.

Jim took a deep breath, closing his eyes. "And how are you going to go about finding your dad with Sam along with you? You're going to take him into bars, questioning people? And if John _is_ in danger from something supernatural, then what are you going to do? Leave Sam in a motel room? Dean, think about this."

Sam watched as Dean seemed to deflate in front of him. "Jim, what else can I do? I can't leave my brother behind, and I can't abandon my dad if he's in trouble."

Jim stood, emptying the remains of his cold breakfast into the trash. He began loading the dishwasher, and Dean got to his feet automatically, clearing the table.

"You could call someone else. Bobby maybe, or Joshua. Call in a favour, have someone else try tracking John down. Your dad left you and your brother here so you could get out of that life. He doesn't expect you to do this."

Dean slammed the dirty plates down on the countertop. "He's my dad! I don't care if he expects me to come after him or not, I'm _not _gonna leave him when I know he needs help!"

Sam watched quietly as the two men argued, the sore feelings from both filling the room and making it hard to breathe. He wanted to go to Dean, have the older man make a fuss of him like he had last night after finally understanding what Sam was trying to tell him. But it was _bad, not in front of other people, won't understand_. He stayed put, eyes sharp on both men as they descended into an uneasy silence.

* * *

Taking care of Sam was a full-time occupation, one that Dean was happy to do most of the time. Except for _right now_ when he couldn't help but wish that Sam was all the way with him, able to hunt at his side like they'd never gotten a chance to do before Stanford. Or hell, he'd even take a Sam that was still at school and not talking to him, just for a few days. Just long enough for Dean to find their dad.

Because Jim, as much as Dean hated to admit it, was right. He couldn't take Sam with him. And he couldn't leave his baby brother behind either.

Dean opened the door to the backyard, stepping outside. The cool wind ruffled his hair and he closed his eyes, taking a breath.

Jim was in the living room, supposedly composing sermons, but Dean knew an avoidance tactic when he saw it. The old man was a good friend. Dean would never be able to repay him for taking them in. But he would never be able to rest easy with Sam out of his sight either, not even knowing that Pastor Jim was taking care of him.

His little brother was different now and Dean wasn't ever going to forget that it happened while Sam was apart from him.

"Dean?" Sam was suddenly by his side, and Dean startled a little.

"Jesus, Sam, you scared me."

"Sorry." Sam smiled sweetly, taller than Dean but somehow still managing to look _up _at him, like he was a kid again. In his arms, Sam was holding a blob of brown and white fluff. Dean frowned at it.

It moved. "Sam, please tell me you haven't stolen someone's pet cat."

Sam took a step back, holding it tighter like he was afraid Dean might try to take it away. "It's the kitty I was in my dream last night. Can I keep it?"

Dean closed his eyes, letting out a heavy breath. As if he didn't have enough shit to deal with. He opened his eyes to Sam's best pitiful expression and stifled a groan. "Sammy, it's probably someone else's kitty. They'd be sad if you kept it."

Sam looked down at the cat, now rubbing its head against his chin and purring loudly. Dean could see the beginnings of a pout forming on his lower lips and quickly moved to distract his little brother.

"Sam, can you remember anything else about the vision you had last night? A street sign, the name of the bar that dad was in? Anything?"

Sam's brow creased in that way that says he's thinking hard. After a moment or two passes, he shook his head. "It was a bar. It said so on the sign."

Dean sighed quietly. Sometimes Sam was so _with it_ he could forget, pretend everything is how it was. That he'd just picked him up from Stanford and continued with their life like nothing had happened. Sam got this _look_, this knife-blade sharpness to his eyes that said he knew everything, past present and future. All Dean had to do was ask and he could know too. It was dark and seductive and Dean wanted to lose himself in it.

And other times it was like Sam was five years old again, trying so hard to please his big brother because that was all he knew.

The cat make a chirruping sound and sniffed at Dean's jacket suspiciously before settling back in Sam's arms.

That moment back at Missouri's, that fraction of time Dean was drawn into Sam's head to see what Sam saw, it brought him closer to Sam than he'd ever dreamed he could be. But there were also times when thinking about it depressed Dean like nothing else. When he wished he could forget it and just go on in confusion. Because what Sam saw on a regular basis was enough to make anyone go batshit insane, and he struggled through it, righting his head in the only ways he could. All for Dean.

He hadn't been able to stop crying for hours after Sam had spoken.

"_You saw. Did you get it?" _

Yeah, he got it all right. And after, when he'd been paralysed by his tears, his belly cramping and his chest aching from the wracking sobs, Sam had been there to trace the tear-tracks with soft fingers and wonder in his childish eyes. Sam had been there to help him undress, to lay him on his back in Missouri's big double bed and soothe him into sleep with his scattered presence.

Sam bent on the patio beside him, letting the cat jump to the ground. It looked up at Dean for a second, its eyes as mysterious and unnerving as Sam's own. Then it wound itself around Sam's legs, making him grin brightly, and bounded off into the backyard to get lost among the flowers and long grass.

* * *

"Thanks Joshua. I'll let him know." Jim put the phone down as Dean guided Sam into the living room. The old man looked up with an unreadable expression and Dean's heart sank with a sick swoop. He busied himself settling Sam on the worn sofa, adjusting his brother's limbs so he could sit comfortably next to him, side to side.

Jim didn't speak even once Dean was seated and looking at him. Dean screwed his eyes shut for a second. "Well? What did Joshua have to say?"

Jim looked down at the carpet between his feet. "He says John was supposed to be on a hunt in Montana. A town outside Yellowstone County. He called a few days ago asking Joshua to do some research for him, and Josh hasn't been able to get in contact with him since."

The vertical stripes of the wallpaper, soothing in browns and beiges, suddenly began to swirl in Dean's vision. Beside him Sam turned, touching a hand to his chest like he could steady the heartbeat that was racing beneath his palm.

Dean took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "So," he said, trying to keep his voice steady "I guess I'm going to Montana."

His hand reached up to take Sam's without his permission. As if he understood, Sam let him squeeze tight to his fingers despite the fact that the grip must have hurt him.

"Will…" Dean's voice dried up before he could get the sentence out. He looked up at Jim, turning his eyes away just as quick. "Will you take care of Sam for me?"

"Dean, you don't have to ask. You know I will. I promise, nothing will happen to him."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I know. I know that." Even to Dean's ears the words rang false.

* * *

Something was wrong. Dean was projecting zigzags of sharp anger and despair that hurt whenever Sam came up close to him, and Jim wasn't much better. He wished he could concentrate, just enough to put together what was going on.

"Okay Sammy, you're gonna have to be good for Pastor Jim. I'm not gonna be gone long, I promise you, so don't you play up just 'cause I'm not there to tell you off. Jim's gonna tell me all about your behaviour when I get back." Dean was studiously avoiding his eyes, keeping his hands busy with a duffle bag.

Sam trailed him to the bedroom they shared, stood watching him as Dean marched back and forth from the wardrobe, the bathroom, the chest of drawers in the corner. Carrying things to put in the duffle. And not once meeting his gaze.

"…and Jim'll take you down to the park, feed bread to the ducks on the pond. You like the ducks. Maybe you can do some more weeding, too. And I'll call, every night. And if you _ever _need me, you just tell Pastor Jim. I'll leave my cell phone on all the time, I promise." Dean's voice seemed to crack at the end of the sentence.

Sam frowned. Dean was speaking, he could tell that much. And normally he was pretty good at keeping track of a conversation, but the overwhelming _emotion_ pouring off Dean kept him distracted and a little scared. When he finally realised what the packed bag _meant_, his brother was already halfway out the door.

"Dean!" Sam strode across the room, barring Dean's way before he could leave.

His brother's eyes were shiny. "Sam, you gotta move."

Sam ignored him, clutching at Dean's shoulders hard enough to whiten his knuckles. He pressed his body into Dean's, rubbing his face in the hollow between neck and collarbone.

"Sammy…"

"No, Dean."

"Sam, I gotta go." He could tell the exact moment Dean started to cry, like a pinprick on his nerves. "Sammy, I gotta. Dad, he's in trouble and I have to go help him."

"I don't want you to."

That seemed to be the final breaking point for Dean; his face shattering into pieces and his hands coming up to grasp at Sam's body greedily. Sam was tugged close, closer, into Dean's chest and arms and body like Dean wanted to absorb him into his skin and carry Sam with him. He rubbed his face in the hair at the nape of Sam's neck, wetting the collar of his tee shirt.

"I don't want to either, Sammy. But dad needs me. Can you understand? Sammy? Please."

The pleading tone reminded Sam of something, a spark in his mind that called up some memory he'd forgotten. But that couldn't be right; Dean never begged. Dean, with the world-class poker face, clamping down on any negative emotion long before it could show on his face.

Except…

"_Sammy, I need…I need you to…"_

Dean. Crying, clutching his hand as Sam lay unseeing on an anonymous motel bed, lost in phantasmagorical dreams. Begging him to come back, to be _there _again.

"_Please. Sammy, please." _

Sam pulled back, just far enough to see Dean's face. His brother's bloodshot eyes and blotchy face made him look like he hadn't slept for a week. Previously unable to meet Sam's eyes, now it seemed Dean couldn't look away, staring at Sam like he never wanted to see anything else. The desolation in his expression made Sam want to cry too.

Instead he pulled his lips into his brightest smile, the one that always made Dean feel better. Making it reach his eyes was harder still, but for Dean he would do anything.

"It's okay, Dean. I understand."

* * *

Sam didn't understand. Even if he did, he'd forget, and in a few hours he'd be asking Pastor Jim where his brother was. Dean knew it like he knew he had to leave.

It was harder to do than he'd ever thought possible, and he'd always known it would be pretty fucking hard. It was like ripping out one of his kidneys; a non-essential part of his body, but one he'd rather have in its rightful place nonetheless. By the time he'd passed by the city limits he was watching the road through a steady stream of tears.

It would take at least two days to drive through to Montana, and once he got there he had no idea how to find his dad. Yellowstone was a big place, and looking for a random bar on a random street would be an impossible task. Dean cursed John Winchester in his head; why did the older man have to be so goddamn secretive about everything? It wouldn't cause an apocalypse if he kept them updated on which town he was in, the name of the motel he was staying at.

And there was also that little matter of Dean being wanted for kidnapping a mental patient from a psychiatric hospital. He'd just have to hope that no one in Montana was expecting a fugitive to show up and start asking strange questions.

Dean drove. For hours on end, he stared blankly at the road being eaten up by the tires of the Impala. Once he'd believed all he'd ever need in life could be found on the road. But that was before. He put his foot down and spurred the car faster.

When Dean finally reached Montana, his chest felt hollowed out and his eyes were itchy from staring too long at the lines on the road. Two days of constant driving, stopping when he felt like he was about to drop dead from exhaustion. He'd spent the first night in a motel room trying to ignore the empty second bed across from his. The second night he'd been too drained to do more than pull over by the side of the road, far enough in the ditch that no one would sideswipe the car unless they were blind drunk. He'd barely turned off the ignition before passing out in the driver's seat.

He'd called Jim's cell phone at seven on the dot both nights. Listening to Sam's bemused voice on the other end was like the ache of an amputated limb, but it was worth the pain to know that he was coping without Dean.

What he didn't expect was the rush of hot jealousy that bit into him, hearing Jim talk about Sam helping bake cookies or washing the car. Dean had expected a full-blown tantrum when Sam realised that he couldn't find his big brother, and really, was that too much to ask when Dean's entire life revolved around making sure Sam got every little thing he wanted? He knew he was being irrational; that Sam surviving out of Dean's sight was a _good _thing. Dean could leave him for a few days, maybe help their dad on hunts once in a while. On the other hand, it meant Dean could _leave him_. That Sam could survive by himself, albeit with someone else to make sure he ate and washed and got his daily requirement of vitamins or whatever. But that someone didn't have to be Dean.

The welcome sign flew past his window in a blur, barely noted.

Dean had called Joshua the night before, collecting all the research John had asked for. Widespread crop failures on lowland farms, dying countryside on higher ground. And it had all begun at around the same time a few months back. John had been stumped, even after nosing around the town for a week. And so he'd called Josh, who'd presented a few vague theories but nothing concrete.

At least Dean knew what to look for in locating the _town _John had been staying in. Now all he had to do was the research. Great. His favourite part of the job.

* * *

Sam knew, in a distant and half-formed thought stream, that Dean had gone away. That he would be coming back, and that Sam could talk to him anytime by calling his cell. He also knew that Dean was upset about leaving him behind, more than he let on in his too-cheerful calls that always ended with _I miss you Sammy_.

So Sam did the only thing he could to help, the thing that made the most sense with the most parts of his mind. He didn't call Dean every time he wanted to, which was roughly every three seconds. He waited for Dean to call him, sitting in front of the loudly ticking alarm clock in the bedroom that used to be _theirs _but was now, temporarily, just _his_. And when Dean did call, he made sure to tell him what he'd done that day, what Jim had cooked for dinner, how he'd sneaked the last cookie from the plate after the church service on Sunday.

There was a tiny buzz in the back of his head that he knew as _Dean_, but the emotions Sam was accustomed to feeling from his brother were gone. Only his voice on a crackly phone connection, and Sam tried his hardest to actually _listen _to every word, to keep the buzz of _Dean_ alive in his mind. His greatest and most secret fear was that without his brother's presence his scrambled head would drift away again. It had been Dean who brought him back. What if without Dean, he disappeared?

Seven o'clock, and on cue Jim's cell phone rang on the table beside the alarm clock. Sam picked it up before it could ring a second time, pressed the green button like Dean had shown him many times before.

"Hey Sammy." Dean sounded worn out. Not the good worn out that came right before sleeping, when Sam would wind himself into all the crevices and curves of Dean's body. Bad worn out, like he'd been staying awake past sleeping-time, like he'd been _worried_. "How's it goin', little brother?"

"Hi." Sam grinned big, even though Dean couldn't see him. "I had macaroni and cheese for dinner. It got in my hair."

"Yeah?" Sam could hear the tension slipping out of Dean's voice. "Was it good?"

"Yep. I ate it all."

"Good job, Sammy."

"Did you find dad yet?"

A muffled sigh, like Dean hadn't wanted to be reminded of the reason he wasn't at home. "Not yet, Sam. But I found the town he was in. I'm gonna go talk to some people who might have seen him later tonight."

The bedroom door opened with a squeak and Jim stepped in, a kind smile on his face. "Is that Dean? Can I talk to him for a second? I'll give the phone right back, I promise."

Sam pouted but acquiesced without an argument, handing over the phone with reluctance.

"Dean? It's Jim. Sorry, I know you wanted to talk to Sam, but…" Jim trailed off, a frown tugging his features downward into unfamiliar lines. He glanced over at Sam, sitting patiently on the bed. "No, no, everything's fine. There was just something…" He turned to the door, motioning to Sam to stay seated. Sam did, despite the unease rumbling around in his stomach. He waited, watching as Jim left the room, as the older man's voice grew fainter. Disappearing, and taking Dean with him.

* * *

"Sam had another vision. At least I think it was a vision; I didn't really know what I was looking out for. But he said something about your dad, about him being trapped somewhere?" Jim spoke in a hushed voice.

Dean clutched the phone tighter in his hand, ignoring the protesting twinge of cramping muscles. The motel room seemed to contract around him, the window that displayed a scenic view of the parking lot darkening like night had fallen early. He tried to speak through a suddenly dry throat. "What-when did this happen?"

"Last night. I woke up and saw a light on downstairs, and when I got up to turn it off I found Sam. He was scribbling on the back of a magazine. The picture he drew is…strange."

Dean took a deep breath that did nothing to soothe his roiling thoughts. "He…he drew a picture?" Against his will he recalled the confusion-filled days when all Sam would do was scribble picture after crayon-picture. Since coming back to himself Sam hadn't shown any urge to draw at all.

"Yes. It's like a child's drawing; stick figures and wavy lines. I asked him what it meant, but all he would say is 'dad's stuck in her head', whatever that means. He doesn't seem to remember it at all today."

"'Dad's stuck in her head'? That's all he said? What does the picture look like?" Dean asked, trying to keep the shake out of his voice.

"There's a stick man, which I assume is supposed to be your dad. He's lying down on a bed of some kind. There's another figure at the foot of the bed which I think is the 'her' he's talking about, and there are lines coming from her toward John." Jim said, the sound of paper rustling on the other end of the line. "I came down just as he finished drawing it. I asked him what he was doing up, but it was like he didn't hear me. I thought he might have been sleepwalking or something until he spoke."

Dean's blood was pounding through his veins so hard he thought it might actually precipitate some kind of heart attack. He didn't know what to do. On the one hand Sam's new vision proved that John was indeed in some kind of trouble. But if Sam was slipping…

Jim read his mind. "Dean, you have to help your father. Sam's fine with me at the moment, and if you were to rush back here and leave John to get hurt you'd never forgive yourself."

He clenched his jaw so tight his head started to ache. "Jim, you tell me if he gets any worse. I mean it. I need to know."

"Of course I will, son. You just focus on finding John for now." Dean nodded silently. Jim seemed to sense his distress and changed the subject quickly. "Sam's behaved well today. Did he tell you he ate all his dinner?"

A shaky half smile grew on Dean's face. "Yeah. Yeah, he did."

* * *

The bar was thick with smoke and the smell of sweat. Music pounded the air so loud that Dean could barely figure out what song was playing. The bass line thudded in the floor, feeling like a second heartbeat in his chest.

It was just the kind of dump Dean hated. Crowded, messy, dirty, couldn't take two steps without someone spilling their drink down his shirt. There was a pool table in the back, but the only use it was being put to was as an extra surface to hold drinks and coats. Slutty girls in clothes unsuited to the cold outside danced in jittery spasms, throwing arms about regardless of anyone standing beside them.

Dean had come here in the hopes of finding someone who'd talked to his dad, but the noise level of the place told him he'd be lucky if the bartender could hear him shout his drink order.

He shoved his way to the bar anyway, reluctant to admit defeat so soon.

The pretty redhead pouring drinks turned his way as soon as he stepped up, unabashedly looking him up and down. "What c'n I get ya?"

"Beer. Whatever's on tap." He shouted to be heard above the boom-chuka beat of the music. She smiled slow and nodded, ignoring the other patrons jostling for her attention and leisurely drawing his drink.

"There. Now why don't you tell me what a guy like you's doing in a place like this?"

The boldfaced come-on startled a laugh out of him. "You don't think I belong in places like this?"

She smirked, her eyes deliberately flicking downward to where the bar concealed his bottom half. Her long hair fell forward over one eye and she carelessly tossed it back with a hand.

Dean was about to reply when a bleach-blonde girl with orange hued skin plastered herself to his side. "Wow, I'm so sorry, did I spill your drink?" She grinned up at him, her eyes blurry with alcohol. "Let me buy you another one."

"Uh, no thanks, I'm good." Dean carefully removed her hand from his chest. He'd need to take a shower when he got back to the motel. Maybe two.

The blonde girl flounced off with a sulky pout on her rouged mouth. When Dean turned back to the bar, the redhead was at the other end of the bar with her back to him. He huffed and pulled out a stool from the mass of people. He'd wait.

* * *

Dean sat patiently until closing time, sipping on the same beer. During that time he watched three bar fights break out, a girl burst into tears as her boyfriend swapped spit with her best friend on the pool table, another girl in hysterics with caked-on makeup running down her cheeks, and two men drinking down bottles of beer like it was a competition to see who would puke on the floor first. And once they'd both taken a turn, they got right up and started drinking again.

The redhead didn't so much as glance his way all night.

Dean watched her as she ran from one end of the bar to the other, pulling pints and measuring out vodkas. Her long hair shone in the dull lights of the bar, and at one point she tied it back with an elastic band. The worn jeans and white tee shirt she wore hugged her figure, offering a hint of the full curves underneath.

She smiled like she knew every person who asked for a drink, engaging some of them in quick conversation. The men, and even some of the women, walked away with a dazed look on their faces, like they couldn't quite believe she'd chosen to talk to _them_.

Dean's eyes were pulled to her hands, pale and soft and deft as they worked. They fluttered sharp-quick, never making a mistake.

Finally the bar began to empty. The irritating music was shut off, and Dean couldn't help the heavy sigh that ran through him at the relief of dead air. He lifted his glass to his lips, drinking the last of his beer reluctantly.

"You stuck around. Guess this is your kinda place after all."

He spluttered on the beer, coughing and wiping at his mouth with a sleeve. _Smooth_. The redhead seemed to find it entertaining, a lopsided grin lighting her face.

"Did I catch you at a bad moment?"

Dean tried to control his coughing, red-faced and embarrassed. "Well, it's not my best."

"Lucky for you, I find it endearing." He turned to face her, pulling his own cocky smirk onto his lips and hoping his blush subsided.

"Yeah? Well, that works out for both of us then."

She winked at him and hopped up onto the bar, swinging her legs over gracefully and landing on her feet on the other side.

"Yes, I suppose it does." Dean's smirk turned into a sloppy grin. She was close enough for him to smell her perfume, a subtle musky scent that put him in mind of autumn forests and freshwater rivers. He leaned in until he could see every hazel fleck in her amused green eyes. For a second he thought _this is it_, and then she was striding away, a swing to her hips and a towel in one pale hand. She glanced back at him over one shoulder, a coy tilt to her plush mouth. "Sorry sweetheart, gotta finish my chores before I can go play."

He leaned back in his chair, watching her wipe down tables with nimble wrist-flicks, the same stupid grin still plastered to his lips.

A buzzing sound distracted him. He tried to ignore it and concentrate on the redhead, now clearing the pool table of empty bottles. It was persistent though, and eventually he realised it was coming from his jacket. His cell phone.

Half in a daze, he flicked it open. "'Lo?"

"Dean? Dean, where are you?" Jim's voice sounded frantic on the end of the phone. The sound of it was like a cut from a blade, slicing through the fug of his brain.

"Jim? What's wrong?"

"It's Sam, he…I don't know, he keeps asking for you, he's…Christ." Hearing the blasphemy, and coming from _Jim_ of all people, instantly threw Dean into panic-mode.

"He's what? He's _what_, Jim?"

"He's…he's scratched up his arms, his…fingernails, he was…" There was a crashing sound on the other end of the line.

"Jim? Jim!" Dean was on his feet, scrabbling in his pockets for his car keys with one hand while the other held the phone to his ear in a deathgrip. "Jim!"

The line was silent. Dean was about to check the connection, redial, when; "Dean?"

"Sammy? Oh Christ, Sammy, what happened? Are you okay? Where's Jim?"

"I'm okay now, Dean." Sam's voice, calm and sweet and _normal_ brought Dean's heart rate down a notch. He slumped back down in the bar stool, the stunted adrenaline rush leaving his head spinning and his body wrung out and suddenly boneless.

"What happened, Sam?"

"I had to talk to you." On the other end of the line Dean could hear Jim's voice in the background, an indistinct murmur.

"Why, Sammy? What was wrong?"

"You were gonna be in trouble, Dean. You were gonna be like dad." Sam said plaintively.

There was another mumbled conversation between Sam and Jim, and then Jim's voice came back on the line. He was breathing heavily, like he'd been in a struggle. "Dean, Sam seems to think that whatever got your father is after you, too. He says it knows you're there looking for John. He was…I didn't know how else to convince him you were okay." He left out a long breath. "_Are_ you okay? Nothing was attacking you?"

"I'm fine. I was asking around, trying to find out if anyone in town had seen dad. Nothing was going on. So, it's all good now, right? Sam's good?"

"He seems to be fine now. I think he wants to talk to you again."

Dean listened as Jim passed over the phone, slouching forward on the sticky bar top. His eyes drifted closed.

"Dean?" The absolute _relief _of hearing Sam's voice was still a miracle.

"Hey Sam. Listen kiddo, you can't scare us like that again. I know you don't like being apart; I don't like it either, but…"

"No, Dean." Sam interrupted, his voice urgent. "You were gonna be like dad. I _saw it_, it was gonna happen. I _had _to call."

"Sam, nothing was gonna happen." Dean said, trying to put his dying patience into his words.

"It _was_. She was gonna lock you in her head too, like dad."

Dean blinked, suddenly alert like he'd been splashed with ice-water. He turned around fast, his free hand going for the handgun in the pocket of his jacket.

The redhead was gone, the towel lying discarded on the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) This takes place after 'Further And Further Out', so you'll probably want to read that first :)

Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed, I love hearing what you guys think of the story so keep them coming! Hope you all had a good Christmas and have a good New Year's, and the next chapter should be up on Tuesday…

Chapter 3

Pastor Jim Murphy hung up the phone, a frown on his face.

Dean had told him about Sam's 'visions', _warned _him extensively before he left. He had believed he could handle them. Just another strange thing about Sam Winchester, formerly the precocious little boy that followed him around always asking _why_.

Said former-child was currently sitting cross-legged on the floor, an open expression of worry on his face.

"Pastor Jim? Is Dean gonna be okay?"

"He's going to be fine, Sam, don't you worry." Jim replied absently, thinking through everything Dean had just told him.

"But the lady was gonna get him." Sam said, biting on his lower lip and wriggling around like he couldn't sit still. Jim had to fight the urge to tell him to stop fidgeting. "She was gonna get him, and he didn't know."

Jim sank down in the easy chair, the well-worn cushions moulded to his body from years of use.

"Dean won't find dad. He needs help." Sam's solemn words broke into his reverie. The statement was _fact_, no second-guessing or assumption involved, and for perhaps the thousandth time since the Winchester boys had landed themselves at his doorstep, Jim wondered exactly what went on in Sam's head.

Earlier that evening Jim had fallen into a light doze while trying to compose the week's sermon, something that happened with increasing regularity as the years passed by. When Sam had woken him with his screams, Jim had thought he was having a nightmare. When the boy started rubbing feverishly at his forearms and stomach, he'd thought he was cold. But when Sam had drawn blood, _that _had been the motivation Jim needed to get Dean on the phone, middle of the night or not. And then to find out that Sam's rantings about a strange woman had been _correct_…

If he were to be honest with himself, his reasons for offering his home to John when his friend asked were not entirely altruistic. On hearing of Sam's problems, the old hunter in him had given way to the Pastor, and he'd believed, more than a little piously, that the church was the best place for someone in Sam's situation. That the guidance of the lord would see the boy through. How Sam would be affected by his brother's leaving hadn't been a worry to Jim. He'd listened to Dean's anxiety and responded with assurances that Sam would be fine without him, that Jim could do just as good a job in watching out for the boy. Privately he'd been more concerned by the need Dean had for his brother rather than the other way around.

Except Sam was slowly becoming more introverted, less the cheerful, sweet, easily distracted boy Jim had gotten to know and like over the past months. It seemed that the change wasn't Sam's own doing, that it was occurring as a byproduct of not having Dean around. And Jim was forced to admit to his mistake. Sam needed Dean's presence just as much as Dean needed Sam's, if in different ways.

Sam sniffed loudly, bringing Jim's contemplations to a halt. The boy was playing with the corner of a cushion, half hanging off the sofa. His long fingers twisted it, wrapping it around the knuckles and tugging the material out of shape. His face was a study in childish misery.

Jim sighed and silently prayed for God's assistance in what he was about to do. Then he recanted. God probably wouldn't agree with him on this one. But that was okay. He had been a hunter long before he heard the calling of the church, and the instincts were buried in his bones as deep as any faith. Absently he reached up to his throat, to the reassurances of the white dog collar around his neck. And he pulled it free, letting it drop to the table beside him.

"Sam." Sam looked up eagerly, as if he'd been waiting for Jim to come to the same conclusion that he'd already arrived at days ago. "Go up to your bedroom and get changed. I'll be up in a minute to help you pack a bag. I have to make some phone calls first."

"We're going to find Dean. And dad." There was no doubt in the boy's voice.

Jim found a weary smile, pressed it onto his lips. "Yes. Now go and get ready, Sam. We leave in half an hour." He fingered the phone in his hand; maybe it would be best to call and let Dean know they were coming. But if Sam was right, if this strange woman really was after him, then any distraction might get him hurt. And Sam, he thought as he watched the tall boy practically bounding from the room, was a big distraction.

* * *

The redheaded woman hadn't been back to the bar in two nights. Dean had asked around, figuring in a town as small as this _someone _must know her. But the guys in the local bars, the attendant in the gas station, the owner of the motel, even the old ladies who dressed their tiny little dogs in stupid tartan coats and dragged them around town, none of them seemed to know who she was. And even more bizarre; none of them seemed bothered by the fact that she had set up shop in a town where everyone made a point of knowing their neighbours' business.

Dean slouched down in the front seat of Impala, his eyes trained on the entrance to the bar across the street. Night was falling and the air was turning frosty, pluming out in white clouds as he breathed. He rubbed a hand through his hair in frustration.

He couldn't work it out. She wasn't human; that much was clear. Dean could have figured _that_ one out for himself, even without Jim's frantic phone call. He hadn't so much as looked at a woman since _Sam_, and now so wasn't the time to be thinking through the implications of his desire to remain faithful to his mentally-disabled baby brother. But Sam was always there, sneaking around the back of his mind like a ghost. And the redhead had somehow managed to put any thoughts of his brother _and_ his dad right out of his head.

A succubus, maybe? But she didn't fit the regular patterns, seemed to entrance the women just as well as she did the men. And the behaviour of the people in the bar that night; men drinking until they puked, women acting like they were in heat and crying over the smallest things, none of it added up to a demon out to feed off sexual energy. Instead it was almost mischievous, like she was amping up peoples' emotions and setting them loose to see what would happen.

People were walking in and out of the bar, but there was nowhere near the crowd that had been in on the first night. It was as if the woman had exuded some kind of attraction that pulled people in without their realising it.

God, he wished Sam were here to help him. His baby brother had always been able to see patterns where he couldn't; could seemingly pluck the answer right out of the air with his trademark sulky expression in place that just screamed _isn't it obvious_? Although, he thought with a huff, the Sam _now_ would be just as likely to lead them on a wild trail to one of the old ladies' yappy dogs. And then Dean would probably have to expend yet more of his valuable patience explaining to Sam why they couldn't keep it.

The winter weather was settling in around the town with a vengeance. Dean had heard three different people in the diner that morning foretelling snow. He hoped they were wrong. Hunting in snow was always a bitch, and irrationally it increased his fear of never finding his dad, like a blanket of snow would cover up any minute trails he might have missed.

He waited another half-hour before reluctantly calling it a night. The Impala coughed to life around him and he flicked the heater on full-blast, warming his hands in front of it for a minute. With a final glance over at the bar, Dean pulled away from the curb and headed back to the motel, disappointment hanging low over his head.

* * *

Sam was practically dancing in his seat.

They were going to find _Dean_. His brother was getting closer with every mile Jim's pickup ate, and he could feel the buzz in his head growing stronger and stronger. The lady couldn't hurt Dean if he was there. He wouldn't let her.

"Sam, can you sit still for a while?" Jim's patient voice filtered through, and it took a second for Sam to comprehend the words.

"Oh. Sorry. D'you think Dean will be happy to see me?"

Jim glanced over and Sam caught the amused smile on his lips. "I think he'll be very happy to see you. He's been missing you a lot."

"Does he know when we're coming?"

"No, I thought it would be better to surprise him." The short sentence was accompanied by an underlying sense of untruth, but Sam didn't say anything, nothing that might get the car turned around and driving in the _wrong direction_.

Sam smiled to himself, picking at the fraying threads on the vinyl car seat. They loosened the more he picked at them, and a tiny hole appeared, revealing the yellow stuffing underneath.

It didn't even matter that they'd been in the same place for what seemed like years and years. The same car smells, the same muddy footwell. Sam wriggled about until he was on his knees on the seat, facing backward. Through the back window he could see the spare tire in the bed of the truck, rattling in its bracket as they bumped over an uneven stretch of road. His seatbelt dug into his neck, rough material against his skin.

"Sam, do you remember what I just said?" Jim asked, breaking his contemplation of the rusty metal tailgate.

"Dean misses me?"

"No, before that."

Sam frowned, thinking hard. "Sit still? Oh. Sorry." He righted himself in the seat.

The stripes along the side of the road were interesting a while ago, but he couldn't touch them through the glass of the window, couldn't feel their smoothness as they brushed past his fingertips. Beyond them the scenery changed a lot, and sometimes there were interesting things to look at, like cows in fields. But they were far away, and there was nothing new to see _right here_. He wondered how long it would take to get to Dean.

Maybe he had said the last part out loud, because Jim answered his question with the same gentleness he always used when speaking to Sam. The calm voice Jim used made Sam feel better, feel like he wasn't stupid for not remembering things or muddling up his words. "It'll only take a few more hours, Sam. And then we'll see Dean, and try to find your dad."

Dad. Oh. In the excitement of _Dean_, he'd forgotten dad. Somewhere, something told him he should feel bad about that. Dad had a prickly beard and a laugh that sounded like a cough. Sam liked it; it made him feel warm. But the first and last thing on his mind was his brother, and he couldn't feel guilty about that because Dean was everything important to him.

The pickup drove on, and Sam waited.

* * *

A banging on the door of Dean's motel room had him leaping out of bed, muggy and disoriented. His hunting knife was clutched in one hand and his boxers were twisted uncomfortably around his waist, the seam pressing tight in a very sensitive area. The room was empty; only the sight of old takeout boxes and messy computer printouts arranged in piles in a corner of the room greeted him.

The knock on the door came again, and he righted his underwear before going to answer it, exchanging the knife for a pistol on the way.

"Yeah?" He called through the door, one hand on the knob.

"Dean?" A jolt knotted his belly with tension at the sound of Pastor Jim's voice. What the fuck was Jim doing here, and where was Sam?

He swung the door open wide, lifting the gun as he did so. He was allowed a snapshot glimpse of Jim standing in the doorway before a blur knocked him backwards, clinging onto his chest like a limpet. He staggered, dropping the gun to the carpet. And then a familiar mop of hair was thrust under his nose, and it was all Dean could do to get a good grip on the warm body it belonged to, hands grasping at every snatch of clothing they could find. Shock and sudden ecstasy knocked the breath out of him and his eyes felt suspiciously moist.

"Sammy?"

He was greeted by his brother's brightest smile, so white and startling it seemed to dim the light in the room.

"Dean! I came to find you."

While Sam was busy insinuating himself into Dean's chest, Jim stepped in the room, closing the door behind him. The sound tore Dean away from his sharp scrutiny of Sam's face for a second.

"Jim! What the he-heck are you guys doing here?"

Jim smiled, and Dean noticed that the Pastor had lost his dog collar since Dean last saw him, instead wearing a beaten grey jacket and a wool sweater with holes around the neck. He looked strangely naked without it.

"I thought it was for the best if I brought Sam up here. He seems to know a lot more about this case than anyone else. And," Jim's expression turned sombre "I think Sam needed you around."

Dean was barely taking in Jim's words, so overwhelmed by Sam, _his_ Sammy, here and touchable and beautiful. His hands were working on instinct, one minute carding through Sam's long hair, the next stroking down his back, the next cupping his face. Sam seemed to be eating up all the attention, pushing his face into Dean's touch like a hungry cat.

When Jim excused himself to go book another room Dean waved him off without looking up.

As soon as the door was closed behind the Pastor, Sam's mouth was on his and Dean couldn't tell who had moved first. Their kiss was deep and sloppy and on just the right side of desperate. Dean fisted both hands in the front of Sam's shirt, hauling him up to his full height. Sam went where he guided, malleable and soft under his hands.

"Sam…Sammy, god…I missed you, baby." He mumbled the words between kisses, pressed them into Sam's mouth like Sam could taste them.

Sam's lips left his, trailing to his chin and under his jaw. Dean lifted his head, baring his throat. His hands buried themselves under thick layers of clothing to stroke and pet at the flushed skin of Sam's back. His eyes fluttered closed, letting the texture and smoothness of Sam's skin guide his fingers like it was scribed in Braille. The heavy coat Sam was wearing fell to the floor, swiftly followed by his hoody and tee shirt.

No one had ever been able to turn Dean on as hard or as fast as his little brother, especially after Sam's mind took a walk. It probably said something about his own state of mind that the hottest thing he could possibly imagine was fraternal incest, but Dean forwent thinking about it in favour of being pinned to the mattress by Sam's body.

After a thorough and exhausting reunion Dean wrapped the blankets around them both, tangling them together in the heat their sweaty bodies had generated. Sam snuffled happily into his neck, a contented expression on his face as he closed his eyes. Dean watched him breathe for long minutes. The search for their father worried at his mind, chastising him for wasting time. But the room smelt of sex and sweat, and Sam was where he belonged; skin-to-skin with Dean. He had long ago learnt to take his peace where he could find it.

* * *

Dean woke leisurely, a happy ball of warmth in his stomach. For a second he thought he was at Pastor Jim's, that the alarm clock was going to start its persistent ringing any second. Sam wriggled in closer, tongue snatching a taste at his collarbone in his sleep.

The pile of papers in the corner reminded Dean where they were, and why they were here. The warm feeling faded away.

Christ, he'd fallen asleep for – he checked the time on the digital clock by the bed – eight hours. Eight hours in which dad had been missing and he hadn't been searching. He'd been snuggling up in bed with his baby brother instead, which was maybe even worse.

Dean slid out from under Sam's long arm. Sam's long arm that had red scratch-marks crisscrossing the skin.

He frowned, pulling the covers away to see the other arm coursed with the same marks. Fingernail marks. Jim had said that Sam was upset on the phone a few nights back, that he'd…

The covers fell from his hand, dropping in a heap around Sam's bare waist. Dean's eyes were drawn to the thin belly. The matching scratches on the skin there. Except those marks were darker, deeper. Like Sam had been able to get to his stomach at a better angle. Some were dotted with scabbed blood.

"Dean?" Sam's soft voice startled him. "Are you mad?"

He met his brother's eyes, the green of them vivid with sleep. Sam looked afraid.

"Sammy, what did you do?"

"I had to." Sam's fingers started playing at the hem of the bed sheets, tugging them over his stomach like he was embarrassed. "I had to tell you about the lady."

Dean caught Sam's hand in his own, bringing it up and pressing the back against his bare chest. "Sammy, listen to me. Okay? I'm not mad at you, but I don't want you to ever do that again. D'you hear me? Never. If you want to talk to me and I'm not there, you ask Pastor Jim and he'll find me for you."

"But I was scared and the words wouldn't work." Sam's words spoken in a tiny voice made Dean feel cold all over.

"The words wouldn't work?"

Sam shook his head, big eyes meeting Dean's. "There was too much in my head, I couldn't make it all work at once."

Dean took a shaky breath, and then another. "Too much, like…before? Like when you couldn't talk?"

"Not exactly."

He instinctively scrutinised Sam's expression for any tells, anything that might hint to his brother keeping the full extent of his condition to himself. Sam the teenager always had a martyr complex where Dean and their father were concerned. Suffering through injuries without telling anyone was commonplace, as if he was storing up each pain to be used later, when it was no longer important. _"But dad, I can't do target practise, I sprained my wrist on the hunt two nights ago. And there's this debate team meet at school…" _But of course to Sam now, lying was a completely foreign concept. His face was wide open, all his feelings on display.

Sam tried on a hesitant smile, obviously not sure of the proper reaction to Dean's worry. "I'm okay, Dean. Really."

He softened, stroking a gentle hand over Sam's head and watching as his brother's eyes fluttered shut to enjoy the caress.

The moment was broken by a loud knock on the door.

"Just a sec!" Dean yelled, pulling on clothing and rumpling up the sheets in the extra bed, as if his brother lying naked and looking blissful and sleepy wouldn't be the centre of Jim's attention. "Here Sammy, put these on." Dean threw clothes at him, waiting until Sam actually started dressing before opening the door.

Jim stood under the awning, his back to the door as he looked up at the sky. He glanced over his shoulder at Dean before turning his head upward again.

"Lookin' for God up there, Jim?" Dean asked lightly. He stepped half outside the door to join the older man.

Jim chuckled softly. "Not quite. Looks like snow's coming."

Dean sighed. "So I hear. Hope we can find some leads on dad before it gets here."

Jim turned to face him fully, compassion in his eyes. He reached out a hand, squeezing Dean's shoulder. "We'll find him, Dean. I have no doubt of that."

He tried to smile back, thankful when Sam's messy head appeared in the doorway.

"Hi Jim. Dean, can we eat now?"


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) This takes place after 'Further And Further Out', so you'll probably want to read that first :)

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter :) I know this is a bit late and kind of brief, I got caught up with all the essay writing I've been putting off over Christmas… Hope you all had a good New Year's!

Chapter 4

Dean shared what little information he'd been able to gather on the mysterious redheaded woman over breakfast at the local diner.

The waitress, an older woman with greying hair tucked neatly into a bun, thought Sam was just adorable. There was only one other customer in the diner, and so she came over to check on them more than once, slipping Sam a free strawberry milkshake when her manager's back was turned. Sam seemed pretty fond of her after that, a big hopeful smile on his face whenever she walked past to pour the burly trucker sat by the window some more coffee.

"So, I'm pretty much stumped here. I mean, seriously, no one knows who she is or where she lives." Dean said, waving a forkful of pancakes in the air.

Jim took a sip of coffee. "Well, do you have any idea what kind of creature she might be?"

"I was thinkin' succubus, but bar work isn't really their usual _modus operandi_. Maybe some kind of trickster? She seems to be all about the mischief-making."

Jim frowned into his coffee mug. "Hmm maybe, but a trickster usually picks somewhere at random, makes its trouble and then moves on. If it's taken your dad then it probably has some kind of ulterior motive. And we can't forget what originally attracted John's attention; the unexplained crop failings."

Sam was blowing bubbles into his milkshake through the straw; Dean absently pulled his hand away from the glass, stroking it to settle him down. "A demon, maybe? Some kind of spirit tied to the land?"

The little bell above the door tinkled irritatingly, attracting Sam's attention in a snap. Dean glanced up, watching an old man wearing a checked flat cap hobbling in. He glanced over at his brother, still staring hard at the door. It was like taking care of a puppy sometimes; flash something shiny in his direction or throw a squeaky ball and he was caught up in it for hours. At least he'd forgotten the milkshake and straw.

Jim dropped his folk to his plate with a clatter, sitting back in the booth. "Well, we can't figure out what it is until we have more information. And since this woman's our only lead so far…"

Dean groaned and dropped his head to the table with a dull thud. "Great. Chasing redheads again. You'd think a hot girl in a town like this would stand out a little more."

Jim smiled, standing up with a groan as his spine popped. "Well, we don't have time to waste sitting here talking. I'll go and pay."

As soon as Jim walked up to the counter, the kind waitress appeared by their table again. "Oh, going so soon? Did you enjoy your meal?" The question was directed to both Winchester boys but her eyes were pinned on Sam, that _isn't he cute _expression that had haunted him since he was a boy. Dean sighed, resisting the urge to nudge his brother only because he knew Sam wouldn't get the joke.

The bell above the door tinkled again, sounding the trucker's exit. Dean glanced around the small diner, and seeing no one but the old man and Jim paying for their meal in sight, slipped out of his seat.

"Ma'am, I don't suppose you could watch my brother for me while I run to the men's room for a second?" If possible the waitress's smile glowed brighter.

"Oh, no problem, he's a real sweetie."

Dean smiled gratefully. "Okay Sammy, I'm just gonna be a second. Stay right here, you got me?"

Sam nodded, his eyes meeting Dean's briefly before skittering off to look around the diner.

* * *

Jim accepted his change with a smile for the harried-looking manager. She looked to be in the middle of an emotional crisis of some kind, her eyes haunted. Normally Jim would have politely inquired as to how she was feeling, offered to sit awhile and listen if she wanted to talk about it. But he had another job to do right now. Maybe once John was safe and the problem, whatever it was, was sorted, then he could come back and try to save the soul of the diner manager.

He turned around to a room empty of everyone except the bustling waitress, wiping down their table and collecting their dirty plates.

Frowning, he glanced out of the large windows, trying to get a good view of the Impala.

"If you're looking for your friends, I think they went to the men's room." The manager said behind him, her voice weary but kind.

Jim offered her a grateful smile. "Thanks. Can you tell them I'll wait outside if they ask?"

"Sure." She said, a faint smile pulling at the corner of her lips.

Jim stepped outside, hearing the bell ringing behind him. He took a deep breath, enjoying the brisk chill of the mountain air as it hit his lungs. Sometimes, he admitted quietly to himself, it was good to get away from the church.

* * *

Dean poked at his face, staring at his washed-out complexion in the mirror of the men's room. He was going to get wrinkles if he wasn't careful. All this worrying couldn't be good for him.

He rinsed his hands, taking his time lathering up the liquid soap and feeling it squelch in his palms. Sam could quite happily spend days playing with soap, Dean had discovered. Once he'd sat on the toilet seat for an hour, watching with a smile on his face as Sam blew giant wobbly bubbles between his fingers. In those quiet moments he never felt sad that Sam's mind wasn't what it was.

Pausing briefly once more to examine his teeth for coffee stains in the mirror, he stepped into the main diner. And saw no Jim, and no Sam.

Before he could panic, the woman behind the counter called across to him. "Hey. Your friend said to let you know he stepped outside."

Letting out a long relieved breath, Dean chuckled softly to himself as he made his way through the maze of tables and chairs. Saluting the woman with one hand, he backed out of the door, almost walking into Jim.

"Hey. We ready to go?"

Jim turned with a quick grin that faded as he looked behind Dean. "Where's Sam?"

A cold hand clutched at Dean's heart, sending it thudding into his stomach. "He's with you? Isn't he?" He tried to see past Jim, as if Sam was crouched behind him.

"The woman at the counter said you went to the bathroom." Jim said, tension creeping into his face.

"Yeah, _I _did. I left Sam in the booth chatting to the waitress."

They stared at each other for a moment, frozen numb. Then as one they spun toward the diner door.

"Uh, excuse me!" Dean practically yelled as he burst through the door. Both the waitress and her manager glanced up in surprise. Dean saw the waitress, strode toward her and seized her by the arms. "Where did my brother go? I thought I asked you to watch him!"

She looked up at him with wide eyes. "W-what?"

"My brother, lady, where did he go!" Jim caught up with him before he could start to shake her, breaking them apart with an arm between them.

"Dean, calm down a second, will you?"

"I-I don't know anything about your brother. He-he wasn't here when I came to clear the table." The waitress stuttered, her face pale and scared. "I'm sorry, I really didn't see."

"I asked you to watch him while I went to the men's room!" Dean struggled against Jim's arms. "You said you'd watch him, now where the fuck did he go!"

The manager came to stand in front of the now-cowering waitress, a frightened but firm expression on her face. "I'm sorry, but we really didn't see what happened to your brother. Did you not take him to the bathroom with you?"

"If I did, do you think I'd be asking where he _is_?"

"Dean, this isn't helping." Jim said, turning to grasp firmly at his arms. "Now Sam can't have gotten far…"

"He hasn't just _wandered off _somewhere Jim, he's been taken!" Dean yelled, his head pounding with blood. His vision was blurry and his body felt like it was about to shake itself to bits. "He wouldn't go outside by himself, he _knows_ not to!"

The manager coughed. "Uh, I'm sorry, but I didn't hear the bell go to say the door had been opened. If your brother left the diner, he didn't get out that way."

Dean opened his mouth to scream, to yell some more. But nothing would come out. It seemed like all the air had been sucked from the atmosphere around him, and he could see his hands start to tremble where they clawed into Jim's jacket. He looked around frantically, desperately, hoping to God Sam would jump out from under the table with a big grin, tell him they were playing hide-and-go-seek and ask why Dean wasn't looking for him.

His knees started to buckle under him, gravity tugging him down. Jim only just caught his weight.

"Dean, we'll find him, we'll find them both, don't worry, we won't give up…" Jim's voice, usually so calming and authoritative, seemed to echo off the walls of the empty diner. His dad gone, and now he'd lost Sam. He'd lost his family. Dean wanted to laugh at that; it seemed so childish and unreal, like a scared kid wandering off in a grocery store.

He'd lost them both. And he had no idea how to get them back again.

Dean did something he'd vowed at four years old never to do in public ever again. He started to cry.

* * *

Sam trailed after the old man curiously, barely bothering to admire his surroundings. Sam wasn't too sure what this not-person _was_ exactly, but the strangeness that emanated from him had Sam intrigued.

Sam had seen through the illusion of the waitress instantly. Even if he hadn't been able to see the _real _waitress frozen in place behind the counter like time had stopped for her, he would have been able to tell. Just like he'd felt the gentle urging sent in Dean's direction; _men's room, go to the men's room, stay a while, it's all okay_. Jim hadn't noticed Sam standing, walking to the old man as he'd called Sam over without words. Hadn't noticed the ring of the bell as the man had held the door open for Sam, ushering him out with a gallant sweep of his arm.

And now Sam felt their worry coursing through the chill air like flames and electricity. But the old man needed his help and Sam had given his word without a second thought.

They wandered seemingly without direction through the town centre. People stepped out of their way without glancing up at them, as if they didn't even know they were there except on some subconscious level.

_Where are we going? _

_Don't ask, young one. You will see. _

Sam accepted the old man's answer without question.

Snow began to fall around them, blanketing the world in softness and fuzzy white. Sam paused for a second, reached out a hand to catch it before it touched the ground. The old man turned around and watched him with a half-smile on his weather-worn face before beckoning him onward.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) This takes place after 'Further And Further Out', so you'll probably want to read that first :)

Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I'm so glad you're liking it so far! Next update will be on Wednesday, later than usual I know, but I really do need to stop putting off essay writing :(

Chapter 5

"Dean."

Jim's voice was ignored.

"Dean, you can't blame yourself."

Yes, he damn well could. It was his fault. He should have been watching Sam. Shouldn't have left him alone, not ever.

Dean dug his fingers into his scalp, feeling the sore half-moon spots where his nails caught skin. He was slumped over the same booth in the diner, in the seat Sam had been sitting in. The last place Dean had seen him, as if feeling the phantom marks of his brother's presence would somehow draw Sam out, or lead Dean to him. The waitress and manager had retreated to the counter, sending glances full of concern his way now they'd gotten over his threatening behaviour.

"Dean, c'mon, we can't sit here all day. We have to start work." Jim's voice was full of sympathy, and it twisted at Dean's gut until he felt poisoned with bitterness.

"What am I s'posed to do now, huh Jim? Sam's gone. Dad's gone. And I don't have the first clue what to do about it. Hell, I don't even know if it's the same thing that's got them."

Jim reached across the table suddenly, so quick Dean didn't see his hand move until it was forcing his head up to meet the older man's eyes. "You're supposed to do your best. You're supposed to go out there and find your brother and your father. You're _not _supposed to sit around feeling sorry for yourself."

Dean was surprised at the vehemence in the Pastor's tone, the determination tugging his face tight and stern. He took a breath, trying to swallow down the tears that seemed to be reappearing every few minutes without warning, as if his body was mourning Sam's disappearance independently to his brain.

He took another breath.

"We have to work this out, Dean." Jim continued. "And I know you can do it. I know we can find Sam and your father. It's just a matter of trying."

Dean chewed on his lower lip, letting his hands drop to the table in front of him. His fingers wound together almost of their own accord, and the reminder of Sam, of his brother telling him about the worms in the dirt with innocence shining on his face before sucking on his finger with sudden startling seductiveness…

He nodded once, brusque and tense. "Well, I hope you have faith, Pastor. 'Cause I think we might need it."

* * *

Dean's mind ticked over everything, breaking it into bullet point fragments that he could treat as impersonally as if he'd read it in a newspaper; a new case, something new to hunt.

Crop failings.

The disappearance of John Winchester.

Mysterious redheaded woman.

Strange behaviour in the bar.

And finally, Sam's magnificent vanishing act.

He strode up and down the motel room, trying to ignore the mussed bed sheets that spoke all too clearly of his brother. Jim sat on the only chair in the room, flicking through computer printouts and making notes on a scrap of paper.

Dean tried twice to settle on the unused bed, to ease his body down from its adrenaline rush. Unfortunately, the same adrenaline had him on his feet two seconds later, restless and agitated as a caged animal.

They'd left their cell phone numbers and the name and number of their motel room with the ladies at the diner, just in case Sam should come back there. Dean didn't think it was likely, but he'd still been reluctant to leave the last place he'd seen Sam alive and okay.

"Dean, sit down. You wearing yourself out isn't helping Sam." Jim said without looking up from the book spread out next to him on the table.

Dean practically growled in frustration. "I _know_, but c'mon Jim, we don't have any leads, we don't have _anything_. How the hell're we gonna find them? Follow the yellow brick road?"

Jim glanced over at him, his face a mask so much like John's that Dean ached.

"I still say our best bet is this redhead."

"Fine then." Dean waved his hands in the air. "_You_ go hunt down the girl. A girl that, may I remind you, I've spent the past three days looking for without shit to show for it."

"Don't swear." Jim murmured absently. "And maybe you've been looking in the wrong places. Who's most likely to remember an attractive woman?"

Dean stopped, turning to face Jim incredulously. "Have you not heard me? I've already asked at the bar. Hell, I've asked at _every _goddamn bar in this town. Every trucker's diner, every gas station, I've even asked guys off the street."

"Like I said. Maybe you're asking the wrong people."

Dean frowned as Jim stood and began pulling on his coat. The older man was halfway to the door before he turned to look at Dean.

"Well? Are you coming?"

Outside the snow was falling thickly now, trapping them in an hourglass that counted down time since Sam had disappeared. There was already an inch on the ground.

* * *

"The diner? _The diner_, Jim?" Dean could hear the embarrassingly high squeak to his voice, the hysterical edge. Great. Sam was gone and he was turning into a woman.

Jim in contrast was the picture of calm and collected beside him. Hands thrust deep in his pockets, the Pastor walked toward the diner they'd left an hour ago, trudging through the slush on the road. It made Dean think momentarily of his car, parked by the motel room. A tiny shock ran through him when he realised he'd gone a whole morning without thinking once of covering her up or driving her somewhere that offered more protection from the elements.

"Yes, the diner." Jim said, glancing behind him to make sure Dean was keeping up. "Who's more likely to notice a pretty girl than another girl? Who's more likely to gossip and ask questions?"

Dean frowned, opening his mouth to argue. Except Jim's reasoning had a strange logic to it. Huh.

They stepped into the diner, the warmed air hitting Dean's chilled face in a rush. The tinkle of the bell announced them, and both the waitress and the manager looked up in surprise to see them again so soon. The diner was busier now, several customers eating their meals and talking loudly.

The waitress hurried over, her face hopeful. "Have you found your brother yet?"

Dean looked at the ground. "Not yet."

"Oh." She sounded honestly distressed, and Dean wondered at the type of person who could have genuine feelings about a stranger. "Oh, no. Have you talked to the police? I mean, this weather isn't helping, but they might be able to do something."

"Actually, there is something we'd like to ask you." Jim cut in smoothly. "You wouldn't, by any chance, happen to remember seeing a redheaded woman around?"

She frowned, setting the coffeepot in her hand down on the nearest empty table. "A redhead?"

"Yeah, hair about so long, pretty face, tall. She hasn't been in town long." Dean said.

"Well," The waitress looked up, her eyebrows drawn together "Now that you mention it, that does sound kind of like the girl young Ben Ellis has been spending a lot of time with lately. Calls her his girlfriend, but I don't know many that'd believe a woman like her'd go for a sixteen year old." She laughed, shaking her head.

"His girlfriend?" Dean asked eagerly. "Do you have her name?"

"Well, no, I've never asked." The waitress frowned, like not asking names was unusual for her. "Come to think of it, I'm not sure where she's from either. She just comes in a few times a week, with Ben Ellis like I said. I do feel for that boy. _Such _teasing he gets from the other kids at school." Her face turned sympathetic at the thought.

A harried woman trying to control two young children pushed through the door behind them, breaking up their conversation. The waitress picked up her pot of coffee. Before she could turn back to her work, Jim caught her arm. "I don't suppose you have an address for this Ben Ellis?"

* * *

The old man was still walking, and Sam's feet were beginning to hurt from following him. The snow was falling thicker, fat puffs that soaked his hair and made his face ache from cold. They'd passed the town limits half an hour ago, heading into the forestland. The old man hadn't slowed his pace once, seemingly at home in the cold air.

The forest was pretty in the snow, bare trees with branches at stark angles, silhouetted in a white cloak that hid their unnatural decay. Frozen twigs and snatches of grass crackled under Sam's sodden sneakers. It was eerily quiet, occasional creaking branches the only sound to break the still air. Even the birds seemed to have abandoned the place for dead.

The old man walked on, untroubled by hidden tree roots that Sam tripped and stumbled over after him. He hadn't spoken inside Sam's mind since leaving the town, but Sam could feel him watching, even as he walked out ahead.

Breaking through the trees and overgrown brown bushes, Sam could see a wide stretch of dying grassland, rapidly being covered in a sheet of snow. Mountains rose on the horizon beyond it, great bleak juts rising from the earth in a way that made his mind feel small. The low cloud hid the tips from view so Sam couldn't tell how high they reached, whether they could touch the heaven Pastor Jim believed so vehemently in.

He realised he had stopped walking at the edge of the forest, and turned to look for the old man. Except he was no longer in front of Sam, or at his side. Sam spun around in a complete circle, and then spun again the other way in case he missed him. But all he could see was the forest, and the grass, and the mountains. The old man was gone.

* * *

Ben Ellis lived on a tidy street lined with identical semi-detached houses, each painted the same white as the snow still falling. Station wagons and saloon cars were parked in each driveway. Dean wished he had the Impala with him to show these people what a _real _car looked like.

Jim led them up the pathway to the Ellis's house, footsteps muffled and leaving tracks in the fresh-fallen snow. Tiny cat-paws scattered haphazardly across the expanse on the front lawn, the only imperfection in the otherwise pristine stretch of white.

Dean wondered for a second where all the children were, why they weren't playing in the snow. He remembered the first time he saw snow. He'd been six and holding toddler-Sammy's little hands in his own as they stood in the parking lot of a motel somewhere, John keeping careful watch from the doorway of their room. Sam had been giggling for hours, bending and grabbing handfuls over and over until his mittens were soaked and his fingers numb.

Jim was knocking on the door, stamping his boots off on the mat under the porch. A second later the door swung open.

"Yes?" An older woman stood in the doorway. She wore a turtleneck sweater that hung down over her hands, and she shivered a little at the crisp air outside. Seeing the two men at her door one hand went instinctively to her throat, as if she thought they might attack her in the middle of the quiet neighbourhood. "Can I help you?"

"I hope so," Jim began "We're looking for a Ben Ellis, we were told he lives here?"

She frowned, the expression pulling at the soft lines of her face. "Yes, he's my son."

Jim smiled, glancing at Dean as if to say _let me do the talking_. Dean was happy to leave Jim to it. He didn't think he could tell a convincing lie right now if his life depended on it.

"Ah, good. My name's Pastor Murphy." Apparently that was the magic password, the woman's eyes brightening at the title. Dean could practically _hear _her defences falling.

"Oh, Pastor, I'm so sorry, I didn't realise. Please, won't you come in? I'll just get Ben, he's probably studying."

Dean took her invitation to apply to him too and stepped in after Jim without bothering to stamp his own boots clean. He found himself in a tiny hallway painted in a shade of sunflower yellow that made him grit his teeth. He stepped away instinctively and almost knocked into a shelf of baby-faced cherub figurines, each posed in rows exactly parallel to each other. Hiding his grimace, he followed Jim into the kitchen.

He peeked in the living room as they passed, blinking sharply at the violent purple of the walls. Apparently this woman thought _colour _equalled good taste. But it was the picture on the mantle that caught his attention; a young boy of about twelve, puppy fat still clinging to his pink cheeks. An older man, probably the boy's father, had an arm slung about his shoulders, his other hand ruffling the boy's hair. They both had big smiles on their faces.

"I didn't mean to leave you standing on the porch, Pastor. You can never be too careful who you invite into your home these days though, it's such a shame. These street thugs you hear about on the news, I remember when you could go out and leave the front door unlocked without any fear…" Ben Ellis's mother carried on talking animatedly to Jim as she led the way to the kitchen, ignoring Dean so completely he began to wonder if he was even visible to her. "Would you like some tea?"

"I'll have a coffee, if you're offering. Black, no sugar." Dean butted in, ignoring the sharp glares shot his way from both the woman and Jim.

"Mom?" Footsteps on the stairs drew the attention of the room. The woman took a step toward the doorway, her arms wrapping around her waist suddenly.

"Ben, honey. Uh, there's someone here to see you."

The boy stepped into the room, starting at the sight of two strange men. His face instantly darkened.

Dean's first impression of Ben Ellis was _computer geek_. He'd seen the same pale face, messy hair and scrawny body on his baby brother years ago, back before dad's training had kicked in and started filling out his muscles. The boy from the photo was still visible in Ben's face, but the puppy fat had been trimmed somewhere along the way and replaced with teenage acne and bony cheekbones.

"Who're they?" He said, narrowing eyes at his mother. She took an aborted step toward him, one hand reaching out into the space between them.

"They're Pastors. They want to talk to you, Ben." Dean could see Jim's frown at the assumption that he too was a Pastor, but neither of them corrected the woman.

Ben took a step back, twin spots of colour appearing on his cheeks. "You called the _church_? I can't believe you, I already told you I'm _fine_! Why the hell won't you listen to me?"

"Ben, honey, they just want to help…"

"I don't need help! Christ, can't you just leave me alone?" Ben spun on his heel and disappeared from the doorway, thumping back up the stairs loud enough for Dean to track his position without even trying.

Ben's mother looked flushed and upset, sagging back against the kitchen counter like her son's words had physically exhausted her. She flinched at the slam of a door from somewhere upstairs. Pastor Jim went to her side, a hand touching her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Pastors. He's…he's not usually like this. He never used to be…"

Jim shot Dean a look that clearly said _act like a Pastor, be compassionate_. Except Dean wasn't really so good with compassion, so he took a step toward the doorway Ben had exited.

"Uh, Mrs Ellis, maybe I should go and have a word with Ben? See if I can do anything to…reach him?" She didn't seem to hear the awkwardness of his words.

"Would you, Pastor? It would mean a lot to me. I _know _he's a good boy really, he just needs some guidance." She took a step forward like she was going to hug him, and Dean took a step back.

"Sure." He put on a big fake grin. "That's what I'm here for. Guidance of the Lord. I'll just…" He waved a hand at the door.

She nodded, looking happier. "Yes, of course. It's the first door on the left, top of the stairs."

It wouldn't be hard to miss Ben Ellis's room, even without his mother's directions. Loud music pounded through the closed door, and while normally Dean was all for some heavy metal to release his anger, the crap emanating from Ben's room made him wince. Some woman wailing in a high voice while the sound of guitars thrashed in the background, and even Sam on his most contrary days wouldn't have pulled this on Dean.

His knock went unacknowledged, or possibly unheard over the strangled woman's death-throes. Dean shrugged and opened the door.

His initial assessment of computer geek was right. The room was dark and smelled of unwashed teenage boy, but the shelves along the far wall were neatly arranged and a whole wall was taken up by a long desk holding three monitors, all on. The books on the shelves were all on birds and wildlife, some as big as the ancient demonology texts his dad kept piled in the trunk of his truck. Ben sat on a wheelie chair in front of one of the screens.

Dean got two steps inside the room before his presence was noticed. The music abruptly cut off.

"Hey, what the hell…" Ben's face was twisted in anger, and Dean held up both hands in a placating gesture.

"Look, I just wanna talk to you…"

"Get the hell outta my room! I don't care who you are or what my mom told you, you got no right to come in here, so take your god crap and shove it!"

Dean allowed a small grin to touch the corner of his lips, shaking his head. "Okay kid, you've clearly got some issues. I'm gonna be gone in a few minutes and you won't ever see me again, but firstly? Don't disrespect your mother like that. One day you might regret it. And secondly, I'm not here to talk about god or whatever you think I'm here for."

He took another step inside the room, shoving hands in his jacket pockets. "I'm here to talk to you about a girl. Tall, redhead, very pretty. I've heard you know her?"

Dean was watching the boy closely for a reaction, any sign of recognition. What he didn't expect was the sudden blanch of the boy's face, or the flinch that followed. Ben shrunk back into his chair, his skinny body seeming to grow smaller. He looked to the side, speaking in a small voice. "I don't know any redheads." His eyes darted to the side, avoiding Dean.

Dean closed the door to the bedroom with a dull thud, watching with something like delight as Ben's eyes widened. "I think you do. I think you know exactly the girl I'm after. And I think you're gonna tell me all about her."

* * *

Sam wasn't sure what to do now. The old man had disappeared. The forest behind him was a stretch of confusion almost as tangled as his own mind, and he had no doubt that an attempt to find his way back to Dean would end up with him lost and stumbling and cold.

He huffed out a breath, momentarily distracted by the cloud pluming in front of his face. He did it again, trapping the warm air with both hands. It felt good on his numb fingers, the tip of his nose.

The mountain was good to look at. It made him think of strange things, things he had seen once that had almost overwhelmed him with their strength and enormity. He had a feeling that the mountain was important.

What would Dean do? Lost and alone with a mountain on one side and a forest on the other, what would his brother do? Sam frowned, feeling his chilled face screw up. Dean wouldn't have gotten lost in the first place. Dean wouldn't have followed an old man, wouldn't have promised things without questioning, wouldn't have gone out in the snow without a warm jacket on. God, he wanted his brother. He tried to think of Dean's warm hands stroking his skin, wrapping him in snuggly blankets and petting his hair. It just made him feel colder. He stuck his hands under his armpits, shivering.

_Are you ready to know, little one?_

Sam replied without thinking, speaking out loud in a dragon's-breath plume of smoke. "Yes."

In front of him, a flash of red dotted the snow-white field. It moved closer, coming toward him without fear. The cold around him seemed to disappear.

Sam stood, watching steadily.

His mind felt clear for the first time in forever, focused, waiting patiently like the ice-cold had pared away all the unnecessary thoughts from his brain.

And suddenly, like an audible _click _that sounded flat in his head, everything shifted into order. Sam blinked, a tiny gasp of breath escaping his mouth. For months, _months_, he'd been relentlessly sorting through his thoughts and memories, separating and arranging and rearranging to try and put them in some sort of order. And now they just fell into place by themselves? He was too shocked, too disoriented as if everything in his head had been upturned _again _in way too short a time, he hadn't even recovered from the last…

_Dean. Oh god, Dean. _

The fox trotted up to him, stopping a few feet away and sitting on its haunches, sleek black-tipped tail curling demurely around its paws. It looked up at him with cocked head, its green eyes meeting his own. The rediscovered memories fell away, unimportant for now.

The fox blinked slowly. _Will you help me?_

Sam nodded. _Yes._


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) This takes place after 'Further And Further Out', so you'll probably want to read that first :)

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, I really appreciate hearing from you :) Next chapter should be up Monday…

Chapter 6

"So. This girl. Who is she?" Dean asked calmly, sitting on Ben Ellis's bed without being asked. He met the boy's jittery glance with an even stare.

"I-I told you, I don't know who you're talking about."

"And I told _you_, I know you do. You've been calling her your girlfriend? Although," Dean snorted, rolling his eyes and looking the boy over with a sneer "_That's _obviously not true. I've seen this girl. What, did you pay her to hang out with you or something?"

Ben flushed, the colour rising in his face to combat the death-whiteness. It resulted in a patchy rash like badly mixed strawberry-vanilla ice cream.

Now that Dean could see the boy close up, he realised that the skinny frame he'd attributed to a growth spurt was more like gauntness, as if he'd been staying up all night and forgetting to eat. Black circles under his eyes made him look like a washed-out Halloween mask.

"C'mon, we both know you know her. All I want is her name." Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Who is she?"

Ben looked down at his lap, lips pinched tight together. "Look, I just…see her around sometimes, alright. I don't know who she is."

"You hang around with her and you don't know her _name_?"

He looked at Dean, resentment in his eyes. "She doesn't…talk much. I just meet up with her every now and again. I thought…"

"You thought what?" Dean pressed. Ben hung his head again, his legs swinging on the chair like he was a naughty child.

"I thought…if the guys at school saw me with her, they might not give me such a hard time. Like, they might think I was cool if someone like _her _wanted to hang out with me."

Dean blinked, his mind tripping into memories.

"_God, it's the same at every school, just because I actually _do _the homework…"_

"_Want me to come hang out with you, Sammy? Bet they'll think you're cool if they see you hanging with _me_…"_

Except Sam had laughed at Dean's offer, slapping his back and telling him they'd probably beat him up in the parking lot if they saw him sitting in the passenger seat of such an _old _car. Dean had put on a mock-offended face, grabbing him in a headlock and ruffling his long hair until he was red-faced and giggling helplessly, begging for mercy. The next day, some jock had pushed Sam in the corridor. He'd ended up with a bloody nose for his trouble, and no one had dared to pick on Sam again. Dean had never worried about his brother while the kid was at school.

God, he _missed _Sam. But Sam had been taken, and the boy in front of him had the means of getting Dean one step closer to finding him. He set his jaw.

"So, what, you just wander around until you find her, take her for coffee?"

Ben squirmed in his seat, the chair spinning from side to side. "Not…exactly."

"Well then, what _exactly _happens?"

Ben didn't speak for a long moment, the relentless spinning of the chair his only movement. Both hands were gripping the seat hard enough for Dean to see the whites of his knuckles.

"Ben." He prompted. Ben jerked like Dean had shot him. He looked up, meeting Dean's eyes, and Dean could see unshed tears.

"Look, it was just supposed to be a _thing_, okay? I just wanted someone cool to be seen with, and she's pretty much the coolest person _ever_. I didn't know…and then, I couldn't get _rid of her_! She's so pissed off with me, and I don't know what to do, I don't know how to make her go away! If…if she kills me…" His hands flew to his head, screwing tightly in the lanky hair.

"What did you _do_? Who is she?" Dean gritted his teeth, his heart pounding.

Ben peeked out at him through his fingers, the tears now running freely. "I…I found this…_ball _thing, like a baseball made of-of glass or something. I was out walking outside town, and it was just _there_, and I picked it up and put it in my pocket. I thought…I thought it looked cool, it was kinda white and glowing and stuff. And then I turn around to go home, and _she's _there, saying it's her ball and she wants it back. I thought she was kinda weird, y'know? She was wearing this white dress and no shoes in the middle of a frickin' _field_, and she just _appeared _out of nowhere."

Dean sat back on the bed, his jaw clenched so tight his head was starting to ache. He took a deep breath, willing himself to calmness. "So you find this crystal ball knockoff, in the middle of a field, a crazy lady turns up and tells you it's _her _ball, and you, what, decided to ask her if she wanted some _coffee_?"

Ben shook his head frantically. He was leaning forward in the chair, like now he'd started the story he was desperate to get the rest out. "No! She freaked me out, man, I thought she might be some kind of weird witch lady or something. So I…" He blushed, eyes flicking away from Dean's for a second "I ran away."

Huffing incredulously, Dean forgot his anger for a second. "You ran away from a _girl_? C'mon man, I've seen this girl, even _you_ should have been able to take her."

"Yeah, well. Guess I really am a pussy like the guys at school say." Ben's blush deepened as he spat the words out, and he dropped his gaze.

"Well, we can discuss your manliness or lack of it later, kid. Tell me the rest of your little story." Ben looked like he was going to object, a streak of hurt making him glare at Dean through his hair. Dean stood, taking a step toward him.

"Okay, okay! Just…sit back down, please?" The boy shied back looking completely humiliated, his arms shaking as he tried to reassert his grip on the chair. Dean might have dredged up some pity for him at the picture he made, especially considering his likeness to Sam. But, he reminded himself, Sam was the one in danger here. Sam and his dad, and maybe they didn't have time for tea and sympathy. Besides, Sam was never this much of a pussy.

"She-she followed me back to town, or something. She appeared by the diner, just as these guys from school were starting to hassle me. And…and they all looked so impressed when she came up and started talking to me, like she _knew _me. So I made out I knew her too. I said if she'd have lunch with me I'd give her the ball back."

"But you didn't." Dean said with a sigh.

Ben looked ashamed. "No. All these people from school, they kept coming up to us, chatting like we were friends. Nothing like that's ever happened to me before. And…and this girl, Alana, from school…"

Dean raised an eyebrow as Ben's blush deepened even further.

"Alana, she's…she's never talked to me before. And…I thought, if I could hang out with them, it'd be worth it."

"What would?"

The chair started to squeak under the force of Ben's twisting. "If…if I asked the redhead to hang out with me again. But she said she couldn't, so I said…"

"You said _what_?" Dean prompted, his patience hanging by a thread.

"I said I'd give her the ball the next day, if she'd come back to the diner with me after school."

Dean sighed. "And let me guess, she came back, and you said you'd give it to her the day after. And then the same thing happened the day after _that_."

Ben nodded, chewing on his lower lip. "She-she got really mad. I didn't think it would be that bad, I mean, who cares that much about a stupid ball, right? But…she…did things. Made people see things. All the forests started to die. And then, the guys at school started saying that she was crazy. That I could only get girls who were crazy."

"So now you're back where you started. Everyone at school thinks you're a loser, and now you have a crazy redhead after you." Dean concluded for him, leaning back on his hands with a sigh. "Wow, you're in some shit there, kid."

Ben looked up desperately. "Please, _please_ help me. Please, Pastor. I don't know what to do."

Dean had almost forgotten about the whole Pastor thing. He suppressed the smile. The church probably wouldn't approve of his methods of interrogation.

"Do you still have the ball?"

The boy immediately looked down at his hands.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Dean stood up, throwing his hands in the air. "You lost it?"

"You swear a lot for a Pastor." He looked at the boy, his face clearly reading _pissed off_. Ben let out a little squeak, scrunching down in his chair.

* * *

"…and I just don't know what to do, I mean, Ben was always such a _polite _boy, always reading, and studying. It's like he's a completely different person. Maybe it's a delayed reaction, you know, from his dad dying. He took it very hard." Mrs Ellis was leaning heavily on the table, her head in her hands. The tea she'd spent so long making sat untouched in front of her.

Jim patted her shoulder. "Lots of boys his age go through phases, it won't last forever. He'll be back to normal before you know it."

He hoped he wasn't telling a lie. She smiled like she wanted to believe him though, so maybe false hope was better than no hope at all.

"Oh, you're so good to listen to me, Pastor. I'm sure you and your friend have much better things to be doing."

"Nonsense. Helping people is what we're here for." Jim said.

The eldest Winchester boy chose that moment to stamp down the stairs. Dramatically appearing in the doorway with a face like thunder, Dean looked ready to commit murder.

"Uh, actually we really should be going." Jim said quickly. Mrs Ellis frowned.

"Oh, you do?"

"Actually…" Dean broke into the conversation and then paused, turning to look down the hall expectantly "Ben's gonna take us for a walk. Talk some things out. It shouldn't take too long, Mrs Ellis."

Ben came down the stairs then, dressed in a thick coat and snowboots and wearing a look that was one part reluctance to ten parts fear.

Dean turned back to the table with a sharp grin. "We'll have him back in time for dinner."

* * *

The snow had stopped falling as the sky darkened. The forest was bitter and sharp around Sam, the soft crunch of snow and ice underfoot seeming loud in the dead air. The fox trotted on silently and this time Sam had no trouble keeping pace.

It was strange, being able to follow the line of a conversation again. Being able to keep track of his thoughts, like they'd been put into orderly piles in his mind rather than tossed behind a locked door.

Sam thought maybe this was what he'd been like _before_.

Except shouldn't he be feeling more? Pain, horror at the death of his girlfriend, at the demon's reappearance in his life, the psychic powers he never knew he had until now? The end of his _normal_, because even if his head was on straight again, he could never go back to what he was.

It would break Dean's heart.

And _that_ should bother him too; that somehow he'd missed his brother's desire for all those years. That he'd given into it and condemned them both.

But it all seemed unimportant. Insignificant.

The fox paused in its tracks, elegant face turning to him as if to check he was still there. Sam nodded to it, and they continued on their way.

He'd given his word to this creature. Everything else could wait.

* * *

This time it was Jim who paced the motel room. Dean sat cross-legged on the unused bed, watching him. Five paces up, turn, five paces down, turn. Repeat.

"So this woman, she just appeared from nowhere?"

"Yes." Ben sat hunched over in the only chair, staring at his hands.

Jim looked over at him. "And it happened because you found a _ball_?"

"Yes. But I didn't know what it was or anything, I didn't realise…"

"So where is the ball now?" Jim broke into Ben's stuttered excuses.

"I-I don't know." Ben looked at his feet. "It must have fallen out of my coat pocket somewhere. I checked the entire house."

"Did you look everywhere? Did you ask your mom if she'd seen it?" Dean asked sharply.

Ben looked up, a petulant expression on his face. "Of course I did. I've got some crazy lady after me, you think I _wouldn't _want to find this stupid thing and get rid of it? It's not anywhere. I looked, I'm telling you."

Jim sighed, finally slumping into the single wooden chair. It creaked alarmingly under his weight. "Well, it doesn't matter now. If it's lost, it's lost. We need to find out what she is before we can do anything anyway." He frowned, picking up one of the books stacked by the bed. "Any number of spirits could be attached to an object. Something that was important to them in life, something that was instrumental in their death."

Ben's head came up sharply. "Wait, what? A…_what_?"

"Yeah, okay, say she is a restless spirit. But...a _ball_? Why the hell would anyone care that much about a _ball_?" Dean frowned, picking through the research papers John had requested before his disappearance and ignoring Ben completely. "And she doesn't sound like a typical spirit. I mean, an enraged ghost would _haunt _the boy, threaten him until he did what it wanted. But all she's done is scare him a bit. And why the crop failures? Why take dad and Sammy? If she can pull off that kinda shit, then surely she can steal a ball off a sixteen year old."

"I don't know." Jim shook his head. Dean stared at Jim, waiting, hoping that the other man would dredge up some long-forgotten piece of information that would make everything click. But the Pastor seemed as lost as he was, and Dean let his head drop into the cradle of his hands.

"Hey, what are you guys talking about? Spirits, ghosts…what kind of Pastors are you?" Ben's head was moving back and forth from Jim to Dean, like he was watching a tennis match.

Jim didn't appear to notice Dean's despair or Ben's confusion, frowning and talking to himself like this was a vaguely interesting mystery he'd read about in a newspaper. "…but how could she have trapped your father? And where? It makes no sense. We didn't see her in the diner this morning with Sam, so how could she have taken him? Plus, we have no idea who she is, or _was_, at least. There were no murders, no accident reports, no suicides to match her description. So then…"

"Jim, d'you think maybe you could…_not_? Please?" Jim looked over, catching Dean's expression. His own melted into something like pity. Dean set his gaze to the floor. He didn't need pity. What he needed was a clue.

"Hey, can someone explain what's going on here?" Ben said, loud enough to attract the sympathetic look from Jim. Dean narrowed his eyes at the skinny boy, taking faint satisfaction from his twitch.

"Jim, you explain. I'm gonna go check on the car, maybe call Joshua and see if he can come up with anything."

The sky outside was almost dark. The fallen snow seemed faintly luminous against the clear navy-blue, lit by stars and a distant moon. Somewhere in the cold, his dad lay trapped. And Sam – his poor lost Sammy who couldn't even focus long enough to tie his shoelaces sometimes – Sam was alone. Dean clenched his jaw, dialling quickly.

* * *

Jim sat in the motel room, feeling every one of his sixty-plus years. His body ached down to his very bones and exhaustion fogged his mind.

He hadn't even done anything yet.

He remembered years ago, hunting side-by-side with men now battered and broken, or dead. Joshua had once told him he'd gotten a lucky escape in hearing the calling of the church. But presiding over the many funerals of those men he'd known as well as he'd known the feel of hot metal in his palm, he thought maybe his new duty weighed heavier than the old one. Jim hoped John Winchester wouldn't be another name on the end of that very long list of buried comrades.

Bizarrely, he wasn't as worried about Sam.

He knew that, logically, he _should _be worried. Sam was a handful at the best of times, and in the clutches of an unknown creature the boy would be as good as helpless. But there was something, a whisper in the air so quiet he could barely hear it, that told him Sam wasn't in trouble. Not yet, anyway. Jim wished he knew how to explain it to Dean. But if there was one thing John brought his boys up to believe in, it was what they could see in front of them. Dean wouldn't believe Sam was safe until he had his brother in his arms.

"Hey, uh, Pastor?" Jim blinked, pulled back to the present by Ben's hesitant voice. The boy met his eyes for a second and then looked shiftily to one side. "Look, I don't really…understand what you were talking about with-with the other guy. But, this girl, is she gonna do anything? Like, to my mom? Because my mom, she doesn't know anything about this, okay. I never told her what the ball was for, or about the girl, I swear. But I'm…I'm really scared here, Pastor?"

Jim leaned forward, forcing Ben to meet his steady gaze. "Son, my friend and I, we're going to do everything we possibly can to protect you and your mother. But we need to figure out what this girl is before we can think about stopping her. Now, anything, _anything _you can think of, no matter how irrelevant it might seem, might be useful."

Ben blinked, his eyes big and scared. It was obvious that whatever Dean had said to him earlier had terrified the poor boy, and Jim wished he could have been the one to deal with it himself. But, he admitted quietly, there were advantages to be had in using Dean's method of intimidation.

"I, uh…I remember she had this _smell_, like woody and musky." Ben said slowly, peeking up at Jim like he wanted to be reassured he was doing a good job. Jim nodded, his eyes earnest. Ben continued, his voice growing in confidence. "She never drank the coffee I ordered for her. One time I bought her a sandwich and she turned her nose up at it, said it wasn't _natural _or something." Jim closed his eyes, wondering how many girls this boy actually _knew _if he thought it was unusual for them to have picky eating habits.

The clump of Dean's approaching footsteps were audible through the thin door. Ben shut up quickly, his eyes darting nervously to the entrance. Jim could hear the murmurs of a one-sided phone conversation. From the tone, Joshua didn't have much that Dean wanted to hear.

The door banged open suddenly, hitting the wall with the force. A tiny squeak was forced from Ben's throat and the boy shrunk back as if he was trying to sink through the wall and escape. Dean's face was dark as he stepped in, but Jim could read the signs of distress around his eyes and in the lines at his mouth.

"Joshua doesn't know anything. Neither does Bobby. Christ, what the hell good are they if they can't even…" He fell backward onto the bed without finishing his sentence, like the batteries powering his anger had run down. Jim didn't bother reprimanding him for his blasphemy.

"Dean, it'll be alright. Sam will be fine." Jim said. He could tell Dean wasn't listening. "Maybe you should get some rest. I'll take the boy home and we can start afresh in the morning."

Dean was on his feet again in a flash. "Get some _rest_? How the hell am I supposed to rest while Sam's out there alone, in the…in the cold. It's _snowing_, Jim. How's he s'posed to… How are we supposed to rest while Sam and dad are gone?" Dean's face was bleached white as the snow on the ground. He looked thinner, like the last few days had stripped his bones bare. Jim could see the tremors in his hands, clenched at his sides as if he was preparing for a fight. Ben was silent in the corner, frozen in place and watching everything with eyes wide in fright.

Jim stood, taking careful steps toward Dean. He reached out a hand, laying it gently on Dean's arm. "You need to…" The other man turned desperate eyes on Jim before he could repeat himself again. The silent plea was almost louder than if Dean had said it in words. "Okay. Okay, we'll keep at it."

Dean relaxed infinitesimally. Under his hand, the boy's shoulder felt all bone, tense and painful. In his chair, Ben let out a silent breath, sagging back. Jim wanted to let out his own sigh. Managing the two was like trying to distract the cat from the mouse, and Jim had no doubt that with the knife-edge Dean was dancing on, he'd rip the skinny teenager to pieces if he had the chance. In Dean's mind, Ben was the reason he was here, the reason John was missing, the reason Sam was gone.

* * *

Sam finally broke the silence. Or at least, broke the silence in his head. It seemed strangely empty not to feel the wonder at every twig, every falling snowflake. His scattered thoughts had been frustrating, even while he was too distracted to know better. But now he could think in a straight line again, he found that he kind of missed being able to see everything as new, exciting.

_Where are you taking me? _

The fox paused in its tracks, turning its head to look at him. The deep green of its eyes reminded him of his brother. God, he hoped Dean wasn't going too crazy trying to find him.

_To exchange. _The fox whispered smooth and sinuous in his head. It flicked its tail low to the ground, sweeping a layer of snow into the air with a silent puff. Sam frowned as he noticed it was leaving no tracks behind.

_Exchange what?_

The fox blinked at that, the only sign of emotion Sam had seen. It was oddly reassuring. A tiny part of him had been half-convinced that the fox wasn't really there, that it was all a hallucination thrown up by his still-crazy mind. That without knowing it he had slipped back into his head, chasing imaginary friends around the forest and getting himself more and more lost in the process.

The fox was cocking its head, and Sam had the impression that could its face show expressions it would be frowning right now. _Exchange favours. Is that not how humans bargain with one another?_

Now it was Sam's turn to frown. _Bargain? I didn't… I thought I was here to help you?_

Bizarrely, the fox nodded. _And in return for your promised help, I shall give you the favour._ It told him, speaking slowly in his head as if explaining something to a child. Sam blushed, feeling stupid. He was being patronised by a fox. If Dean found out, Sam would never hear the end of it.

And then something clicked.

_What favour are you giving me?_ He asked slowly, taking a step forward. The snow squeaked under the sole of his sneaker, slippery-soft. The fox didn't move.

_I shall return your father. _It said, voice in his head like silk. _As a sign of good faith. And you will take back what the boy stole from me. _

Sam took another involuntary step forward, his mouth working against words he didn't have to say aloud. _You…my dad? You have him? And you'll just give him back, just like that?_

_In return, you will find the boy. _The fox's eyes were alien, even for a wild animal. _That is all I ask of you._

Sam hoped he was imagining the hate glimmering in the dark pupils.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) This takes place after 'Further And Further Out', so you'll probably want to read that first :)

Thank you to everyone who took the time to review, I love hearing what you guys think :) Next update should be on Saturday…

Chapter 7

When John closed his eyes, he was sitting in his truck at a red light. It was sunny out, and people were walking into town ready for the morning market. A teenage girl has walking across the road in front of him, long brown hair whipping around her face, dancing in the wind. Her scarf was pulled up around her chin and her cheeks were rosy. She'd been smiling, waving at someone on the opposite side of the road.

When he opened them again, it was to pitch black.

Every sense went instantly on high alert, his instincts screaming _wrong, all wrong._ Blinked once, twice, letting his eyes adjust. His fingers groped for the glove compartment, searching for the gun he kept there.

He was still sitting in the truck, but the engine that had been idling at the stop sign was now off. Slowly he turned his head, searching…

Nothing. Nothing was there, nothing to explain the sudden change in scenery. He relaxed infinitesimally. Risking a glance down, he saw the keys still dangling in the ignition. With one hand holding tight to the gun, he started up the truck and flicked on the headlights.

Snow was falling, tiny sparks of white drifting lazily past the twin beams projected from the truck. He could make out trees in front of him and to either side, stark black trunks protruding from the white blanket on the ground. Beyond them there was only black.

Breathing heavily, he noticed his breath pluming out in front of him. It was cold, _freezing_ out, and how the hell had this happened? Where the hell was he, and how did he get here?

Sensing no immediate danger, he cautiously opened the truck door, stepping out into the night. Nothing attacked him, and he frowned hard enough to hurt.

John walked slowly around the truck, noting the build-up of snow around the sides. There were no tire-tracks. So however he'd gotten here, it had happened before the snow had begun to fall. A thick layer plastered the hood of the truck, nearly three inches deep. He dug his fingers in, scooping some off and flicking it onto the ground.

There was a moon above him, misty with clouds. The snow fell silently, and god if this didn't feel like a cheap horror movie. John half expected to hear the whoops of cannibals descending from the hills all around him.

He shivered in the frigid air. Wondered how long he'd been out here in the middle of god knows where. A day, at least. The snow hadn't been forecast for another week though, and his chest clenched painfully. If he'd been out here for a _week _already…

Why had no one found him? Surely Dean would have been worried, would have sent someone to track him down? Unless he really had been transported to some distant place, found a portal to Tibet in the middle of downtown Montana…

There was always alien abduction, he thought, huffing out a short laugh.

He walked a little way through the trees, finding a deserted road on the path. The truck must have been driven here and then dumped. By him? By something that had taken over his mind, made him lose himself in this place and left him for dead? Except he was still alive, and assuming he hadn't been abducted or sent to Tibet, he'd been gone a week with no food or water. He was a little hungry, but then he'd skipped breakfast on the last day he could remember. Too eager to get started on the job. He'd planned on picking up something later, figured it didn't really matter if he didn't eat because who the hell was around to worry about his diet when everyone he knew was at least two states away.

John went back to the car, climbing in and turning the heater up to full. His cell phone was sitting innocuously on the passenger seat beside him, exactly where he'd left it.

Switching it on, the first thing he noticed was the flashing symbol telling him he had missed calls. Forty-seven missed calls to be exact, and the same number of voicemail messages. The second thing he noticed was the no signal sign in the corner.

He sighed and started the car, carefully reversing down the slippery path until he reached the road. Hopefully he could find his way back to the town, and then maybe he'd get some answers.

* * *

The fox had taken him to a clearing in the forest, a perfect circle of flat snow-covered ground surrounded by thick bushes dappled in white. The sky was clear here, which Sam found strange after the thick clouds that had made walking through the forest so perilous. But above him shone a perfect sickle moon like a sharp smile, surrounded by pinprickle stars.

Sam sat cross-legged in the middle of the copse, heedless of the melting snow. It didn't seem to touch him, and he wondered if that was another trick, another of the seemingly endless abilities the fox had. Like setting his mind straight. Like distracting him from his worry about Dean, Jim, his dad.

Now the fox sat primly in front of him, its pointed muzzle held high. The full red tail swept back and forth in the snow behind it, leaving a fanned imprint behind that reminded Sam of Dean teaching him how to make snow angels.

"So, uh…" Sam said out loud. He felt suddenly stupid, sat in a dark forest in the middle of the night, with a _fox_, of all things. He let out a loud exhale. It startled him to realise his breath didn't hang in the air and he frowned, staring at the space the white mist should be.

_The trade? _The fox reminded him.

_Yeah, that. I agree. I'll do your favour, and you do mine. But I'm not hurting anyone for you, you understand?_

The fox inclined its head regally, blinking at him. _It is acceptable. I only want what is mine. _

_So you'll let my dad go?_ Sam leaned forward, eager despite himself.

_It is already done. I knew you would agree. _

"What?" Sam said, jerking back and looking around stupidly, as if his dad would walk out of the woods. "He's okay?"

_He is already travelling back into town. He will find your brother._ The fox cocked its head to one side. _So we shall wait here until morning. And then you shall fulfil your half of the agreement._

* * *

"No, mom, I'm okay. I'm just…talking some stuff through with the Pastors. Yeah, I'll be back soon. You don't have to wait up." Ben was talking on a cell phone. He was trying to be quiet about it, but to Dean he might as well have been shouting in his ear.

Jim sent him a sharp look; _calm down, leave the boy alone_, and Dean gritted his teeth against the curse that wanted to slip out.

He was trying to think positively, but hell, positive was never something he was good at. Sam was the one who would always tell him it was going to work out okay. Sam had enough hope for the both of them.

They had to find him.

If they found him, then maybe they'd find dad, and then they could all go back to Jim's and sit in front of the fire and leave this goddamned snow up in the mountains where it belongs. Dean would even make Sam some of the chocolate milk he liked so much, heated in a pan because apparently it tastes better that way. Jim would sit at the table, writing quietly, and Dean would listen to Sam talk about the colour of the sofa and the burnt tongue he'd gotten from drinking the chocolate before it cooled. Maybe dad would stay and they could play at being a family for a little while.

"We'll work it out." Jim said suddenly. Dean jumped a little. He hadn't heard Ben end the call, hadn't heard the room descend into silence.

"Yeah, and how will we be doing that, exactly?" Dean said without looking up.

"Something will come up." Jim sounded determined, as if he could force the answer through sheer willpower. "We'll find something."

Dean sat back on the bed, leaning his head against the wall. He could hear Jim flipping pages of some ancient book or the other in sharp violent gestures that sounded more like he was ripping them out rather than reading. Ben sat stiffly in his chair, his hands gripping the armrests so tightly his knuckles were white. The tension was so thick Dean could almost smell it.

The rumble of a car driving into the parking lot outside startled them all, the flash of high-powered headlights casting a glow through the curtains.

Jim looked up from the book and frowned. "Who the hell would be driving around in this sort of weather? Idiot could have gone off the road if he hit a patch of ice."

Dean ignored the frustrated tone of the Pastor's voice, pretended it wasn't the second time Jim had blasphemed in as many days. They were both wound up too tight.

God, he wasn't used to this anymore. Hunting had been his life for as long as he could remember and he always thought it would be what eventually ended him. And he hadn't cared. Live fast, die young. Have as much sex as possible and leave with no regrets. Dean always thought he'd live longer out hunting than suffering through some dead-end suburban existence anyway, thought one month in a semi-detached with a station wagon out front and he'd be slitting his wrists out of sheer boredom.

But the last few months at Jim's, waking up and going to bed in the same place every night, having a weekly schedule and household chores to do, it hadn't been so bad. And he hadn't even realised until now how much he'd relaxed into it. It was quiet, sure, but he had Sam for excitement, Sam to keep him sane and happy and smiling every day.

The knock at the door make them all jerk; Jim and Dean on their feet in a flash. Ben was staring at the door with wild eyes, his body rigid in the chair.

"Is it her? God, it's her, isn't it, she's found me!"

Dean shot a sharp look at him and narrowed his eyes. "Christ, d'you think if it was her she'd _knock_? Now shut up." He bent to his bag and pulled out a gun. Ben whimpered at the sight of it.

"I thought you said it wasn't her!"

"_Shut up, kid_." Dean snapped without bothering to look at him.

The knock came again, hesitant this time.

Jim glanced over at Dean. His mouth was tight and he nodded once, stepping to one side of the entrance. Dean levelled the gun, aiming at chest-level. He took a long steadying breath, and then gestured to Jim to open the door. But before the Pastor could move, a voice called out.

"Dean? You in there?"

Dean blinked, arm falling to his side. _Dad? _Jim had dropped his own weapon on the table with a sharp intake of breath. _Can't be…_

Jim held a hand out as Dean strode to the door but he shrugged it away carelessly, heart beating fast. He threw it open wide, a cold gust of wind cutting through the thin shirt. He barely noticed.

"Dad?"

John turned around to face him, an uncertain smile pulling at his lips. "Hey son. I saw the Impala out front. What're you doing here?"

* * *

John sat on the edge of the bed nearest the door, his face in his hands. Dean was torn between wanting to hug the man and hit him.

His dad couldn't remember anything. He'd been gone for a _week_ and he couldn't remember anything.

But, as Jim pointed out, at least there was one missing person to cross off the list. One down, one to go. The air of defeat that the Pastor had been so stubbornly denying entrance was gone, replaced with optimism. They'd find Sam, he said, or possibly Sam would find _them_. If whatever it was that took John let him go without any kind of fight, then maybe it would do the same for the youngest Winchester.

Dean wasn't so sure. And neither was John, from the look of things. He'd been eyeing Ben with distrust, despite Jim's reassurances. Strangely enough, John's unwillingness to share important information around Ben was bringing out the same defensive instincts Dean felt long ago whenever Sam would butt heads with their dad, like he should be the one to smooth everything over, calm everyone down and make sure they were all happy. It made him feel purposeful again, and faintly nostalgic. A tiny smile quirked at his lips.

Jim was going through all the information they had so far, passing John the notes and the catalogue of dead leads he'd written down. John took it, flicking through briefly was a frown on his face before putting it aside and turning to face Dean.

"Run it by me again." He said gruffly, meeting Dean's eyes. "Explain how exactly you could lose your brother in a _diner_, in the middle of the _day_."

Dean flushed and looked at his hands, the smile vanishing like it never was. He felt small and ashamed, hot with guilt for allowing himself the luxury of feeling anything other than desperate fear for his brother. He hunched on the other bed and resigned himself to being scolded like a naughty child.

"John, it wasn't Dean's fault." Jim pacified before John could say anything further. "I was there too, and I didn't see anything. This thing, whatever it is, it obviously knows what its doing."

John held his stare for a moment longer and Dean could feel his eyes boring into the top of his lowered head. Then the gaze was dropped with a heavy sigh. "You're right, Jim. I'm…I'm not blaming anyone. I just…" John trailed off, running his fingers through his hair. "Have you asked around? Maybe it wasn't anything supernatural that took him. He's not…right, in the head. Maybe he just wandered off."

The comment brought back the surge of anger that Dean had been pushing away. His head snapped up. "He didn't, dad! He _knows _not to do that!"

He hated it when people _looked _at Sam, stared at him while they were out grocery shopping or walking in the park, always with pity in their eyes. He knew it didn't bother his brother, not really. It bothered him, though, to hear women gossiping about the _retarded boy_, and _wasn't it so nice of the Pastor to take him in_. But a stranger calling Sam names behind his back was one thing, when their own _father _did it…

Dean stood abruptly. Ben, still silent in his corner and trying not to draw attention to himself, let out a tiny gasp.

"Dean…" Jim stood too, reaching a hand out to him.

"I'm gonna take the boy back home. He doesn't know anything, there's no point in keeping him here. You and dad can try to figure out what took Sam." Dean said, aiming an angry glance at John. "C'mon." He gestured roughly at Ben.

Ben got to his feet, keeping wary eyes on him like he was afraid Dean might flip out at any second.

"C'mon, kid, we don't have all day. You wanna go home or not?"

Ben nodded quickly, running for the door.

"Dean…" John said softly, imploring.

"Dad, if you're just gonna tell me how well I'm _not _taking care of Sam, then I don't need to hear it." He gritted his teeth, forcing the words out. "I _know_, okay. I know, it's my fault and I should have done better."

"Dean, I wasn't going to say that."

Dean shook his head, blinking back tears. "I'm gonna take the boy home. I'll be back in half an hour."

* * *

The snow was falling heavily now, big thick clumps of it that whipped in Dean's eyes and caught in his eyelashes. The ground was slippery with trodden snow turned to ice, and he considered going back and asking to borrow one of the trucks rather than risking the Impala in this. As much as he loved his baby, she didn't handle well in harsh weather. But he'd said his piece and made his dramatic exit, pride battered and trailing somewhere behind him. He wasn't quite ready for another round with his dad just yet. He snorted, thinking of all the times it had been Sam running out of the motel room in a huff.

"Uh, are we going, like, now?" Ben's tentative voice brought Dean back to the present and he scowled instinctively.

"Yes, we're going now. Did you think we were gonna spend the night in the parking lot?" Dean waved in the direction of the car. "Get in."

Ben blinked, looking over the Impala. "This is your car?"

"Yeah. Sixty-seven Chevy Impala." Dean said, patting the snow-covered roof fondly. No matter how bad he was feeling, his car always made the burden seem a little lighter.

"Huh." Ben said, opening the door with a creak and sliding inside.

Dean climbed in and started the engine, flicking on the heater and the windscreen wipers. "What'd you mean, 'huh'?"

"Nothing. Just…it's kinda old, isn't it? And, uh, messy. Even my mom's car's not a messy as this, and I lose all my stuff in it. Couldn't you afford a new one?"

Dean's head flew up and he glared at Ben, ready to tear him a new one for daring to mock _his _car. But Ben was looking around the inside of the car with an expression of honest curiosity, mingled with a slight hint of disgust. Dean followed his gaze, and yeah, maybe he should think about clearing out the back seat one of these days.

"This car's a classic, kid. The age is kinda the whole point." He patted the dash lovingly. "Besides, it's great for gettin' girls."

Ben's eyes widened almost comically. "I thought you were a Pastor. Don't you have to promise not to, uh, do…_that_?"

"You mean sex? Well we're not really _supposed _to, but the message of the Lord is forgiveness for our sins, right?" Dean grinned as he pulled out of the parking lot, catching a glimpse of Ben's face turning red. "You should see some of the girls my friend Pastor Jim picks up."

The snow prevented Dean from going as fast as he'd have liked, but the low and steady rumble of the engine felt good under him. He stroked one hand along the top of the wheel. His car always knew how to comfort him.

* * *

"John, the boy's blaming himself for everything already, you didn't need to come in here accusing him." Jim was saying.

John nodded, face in his hands again. "I _know_, Jim. I don't know why I started in on him. I didn't mean to."

"He's been worried sick about you. We all have. And with Sam disappearing…" Jim went on, pacing the room. John sighed heavily.

The truth was, he knew exactly why he started arguing with Dean. He'd seen it in his son's eyes. Dean had opened the motel door after hearing his voice, naked hope emblazoned across his face. And he'd looked straight past John, like he was expecting someone else to appear out of the darkness.

He knew his boys were close. And he knew that as much as he might want to, he could never be a part of the bond they shared. It had always cut deep that Sam would run to Dean before he'd run to his dad. As a boy, if his youngest fell down and grazed his knee, it was Dean he called for through his tears. The stupid thing was it was John himself who had instilled the beginning of that bond in them, taught them the importance of _together_. He'd just never stopped to think that _together _might not include him.

Buthe still remembered once upon a time when _Dean_ at least looked up to him. When he still felt reassured that at least his oldest son looked to him first and foremost, even if his youngest only had eyes for his big brother.

He hadn't meant to take his anger out on Dean, but it hurt that he was now so obviously a secondary concern to his son, his second-in-command. His own sense of shame was burned painfully into him the moment he saw the disappointment in Dean's eyes. He wasn't Sam, he hadn't brought Sam back to his brother. He didn't know where Sam was.

Missouri had told him that his boys loved him, that they'd always love him. And it was enough to know that, most of the time.

John sighed again. Jim had stopped talking, was watching him with eyes full of understanding. He huffed and turned to the books laid out on the table.

"Well, we should get to researching. What've you got so far?"

* * *

Ben was tapping his fingers on the dash. It was very annoying.

Dean shot a longing look at the tape deck, wishing to god he could turn it up loud and drown out everything. Maybe teach Ben what _real _music sounded like along the way. But the snow was falling steadily, propelled to the ground by a sharp wind, and he needed all his concentration to keep the car straight on the curving roads. He'd already come perilously close to spinning twice. He wished he'd swallowed what was left of his pride and asked his dad if he could take the truck. At least the truck had four-wheel drive.

"So, you're not really a Pastor, are you?" Ben said, breaking the silence between them.

"What gave me away?" Dean murmured distractedly, keeping his eyes fixed on the road. He slowed to a crawl to take another corner, praying to the god of cars that his baby didn't get scratched by the outcropping of dead bushes on one side of the road.

Ben made a little victorious sound in the passenger seat, and Dean snorted under his breath. Like it had been that hard to figure out he wasn't a Pastor.

"So who are you? And who's the other guy? Are you, like, conmen or something?" The boy seemed to have completely forgotten his earlier fear of Dean in the excitement, and Dean gave momentary thought to reminding him of it.

Then another car flew past, travelling in the other direction and giving Dean a mild heart attack after seeing how close it came to his door, and he forgot about scaring the crap out of Ben.

Unfortunately Ben didn't seem to notice the death-defying miracles Dean was pulling off in the driver's seat.

"So was all that back at the motel just made up to scare me? God, is the redhead _working_ for you? Is she like, the one you use to draw me in before you scam me? Are you scamming me _right now_?" Dean blinked as he caught up with what Ben was saying.

"Sorry kid, no scam. And the stuff at the motel, that was all real. The redhead too, unfortunately."

"…oh."

Ben was silent as Dean navigated another tricky patch of road. The Impala's gears grinded in protest as Dean tried to find a good purchase on the road, and he winced, promising to check the whole car over when all this was done with.

After manoeuvring through the stretch of snow, Dean realised Ben had fallen silent. He glanced over quickly.

The boy was shaking and pale, his eyes suspiciously wet. His nose was running too, and Dean threw a used Burger King napkin at him before it could drip on the seats. "Oh for Christ's sake, kid, calm down. Look," he pulled the car up to the side of the road, carefully putting on the handbrake. "I know it's hard to deal with. But I promise you, nothing's gonna happen to you. We'll take care of whatever it is, and then we'll disappear and you never have to think about it again. Okay?"

Ben blinked at him, eyes big. "You…you promise?"

Something churned in Dean's stomach like sour bile. What good were his promises? He'd made one to Sam, and look where it got them. But the boy was waiting, expectant on his answer. So he took a deep breath. "I promise."

Ben smiled, shaky and damp. "Th-thanks. Thank you."

A sudden beep of a horn sounded, making them both jump in their seats. Dean looked back to see an impatient Volkwagon with snow chains pulled up behind them. He cursed under his breath, waving it through and pulling back out behind it.

The chains were actually helpful, he discovered two minutes later as they picked up speed following in the Volkwagon's tracks, and he took back a few of the curses. Ben sat quietly in the passenger seat, sniffing loudly.

"Christ, kid, blow your nose."

"I don't have a tissue."

Dean glanced over at him. "What are you talking about, I just gave you one?"

"This?" Ben held up the napkin with a look of disgust. "It has _ketchup _on it."

Dean huffed. "Well look in the back then, your highness. I'm sure Sammy left some…" He cut himself off as a pang like a shard of glass caught him in the chest.

"Who's Sammy? You keep on talking about him?"

"It's _Sam_." Dean said shortly. "He's my brother. The…whatever this redhead is, she took him."

"Oh." Ben swallowed convulsively. "And…and that's why you're mad at me? 'Cause it-it was my fault she's here?"

"Yeah, pretty much." Dean said, not looking Ben's way.

Ben sat silently for a minute, and Dean thought maybe he'd scared the kid again without meaning to. _Good_, a spiteful part of him thought. _Teach him to mess around with things he doesn't understand_.

Another minute passed. Dean sighed heavily. "For fuck's sake. It's not your fault, kid. You didn't know. It was damn _stupid _of you," he said, shooting a look at him "but that doesn't make it your fault. Okay?"

Ben blinked at him, and Dean could see the fresh tears on his face.

"Seriously, kid, use a tissue. I don't want snot all over my car, thanks."

"O-okay." He nodded and tried to smile again before leaning over into the back seat. Dean listened to him rummaging around for a long moment before risking a glance back there himself.

"You find them?"

"Nope. Bet they're under the front seat, that's where all my stuff gets lost in my mom's car." Ben made a little _a-ha_ noise, emerging with tissues in hand.

Dean frowned. "Huh. All your stuff gets lost in the car?"

Ben looked at him, confusion evident. "Uh, yeah usually, why?"

"Did you check, see if the redhead's ball was there?" Dean asked casually, trying to keep his eyes on the road and watch Ben at the same time.

The kid was looking sheepish. "No?"

Dean pasted on a wide fake smile. "D'you think maybe you should?"

* * *

Dean pulled up outside the Ellis house, turning off the ignition. Ben smiled hesitantly at him.

"I'll go and check the car, if you wanna wait here?"

Dean nodded, throwing an arm over the back of the bench seat. "Yeah. And be quick about it, kid, I'm freezing my balls off here."

Ben nodded and disappeared into the drifting snow. Dean could vaguely see the lights flash on in the house.

He let out a slow breath, trying not to get his hopes up. But if they had this goddamn ball, maybe they'd finally get somewhere in finding out what they're dealing with. And if worst came to worst, he'd at least have something to bargain for Sam with.

Ben reappeared at the passenger door, opening it and swinging back inside. Dean looked at him with barely concealed anxiety.

With a big grin, Ben held out his hand. Resting innocuously in his palm was a glowing glass ball the size of a grapefruit. "Found it."


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) This takes place after 'Further And Further Out', so you'll probably want to read that first :)

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, I really enjoy hearing what you guys think :) Next update should be on Thursday…

Chapter 8

They were in a house. They were in someone's _bedroom_, without their permission, and all the lights were off and dawn was only half an hour ago and there was steady breathing emanating from the bed two feet away.

Sam really hoped no one woke up with a sudden desperate need to piss.

It wasn't like he was a stranger to breaking and entering, but usually it was office blocks or warehouses or shops they broke into. It wasn't an innocent family house, and it wasn't at a time when anyone could wake up and catch them and call the cops. And what excuse would he use? Me and my pet fox here, we were looking for a ball in this nice teenage boy's bedroom while he slept?

The fox was currently sniffing around under the bed, hindquarters waving in the air. The sight made Sam want to laugh, laugh until he shook. But he promised. He'd seen his dad's truck parked outside the motel as they walked through the town. The fox had kept its side of the bargain, so he would keep his.

_Did you find it? _Sam asked silently.

The fox twisted around under the bed until its nose poked out. _No. _

_Uh, not to be rude or anything, but why do you even need me here if you could break into the house and get this ball yourself? _

The fox paused for a second, face turning to the boy sleeping peacefully in his bed. It belly-wriggled out of the small space, shaking itself to get rid of the dust sticking to its red coat.

_Because the boy took it. I cannot take it back unless it is offered to me. It is against my nature. _It fixed Sam with sharp black eyes that shone in the dull light of dawn filtering through the single window. Outside, the clouds were dark, swollen and pregnant with snow.

Sam frowned. He looked over at the boy, at the boy's room filled with computers and books. It could have been his own dorm room, back in his first year at Stanford. Back before he'd gotten over the pain of leaving his dad and Dean, he had barely gone out. Losing himself in a book for a few hours had been his only respite.

He didn't want to have to hurt this boy, who kept a picture of his mom and dad on his bedside table next to a glass of flat Pepsi.

_We should check the other rooms to be sure. _The fox said. Sam paused for a second, looking hard at the picture of a smiling family. He turned back to the fox and nodded once, brusquely.

_Let's go. They'll be waking up soon. We should make this fast._

The only other bedroom was occupied by a woman, sleeping hunched over on one side of the bed as if she was afraid to stretch out onto the second pillow. Sam watched her for a second, feeling sick and perverted for being here. The fox slipped in through the crack in the door, ignoring the woman. Sam waited outside for it to finish its scouting.

The rooms on the lower level were painted in garish colours; purple and yellow and fuchsia so bright it made Sam blink, even without a light on. The fox didn't seem to notice, and he wondered if it could even see colour, or if it could only see in black and white like a dog. Now wasn't really the time to ask, he felt.

He rummaged through cupboards and drawers, mindful of the noise he was making. A heavy bronze statuette shaped like a lion fell off a wobbly table and hit the floor with a thud, muffled by the thick carpet. Sam froze, his eyes darting toward the doorway, but no one appeared to scream and call the police.

He huffed heavily. _I don't think it's here._

The fox appeared in the doorway to the living room, its tail bristling out behind it. _It has to be! I need the ball!_

Sam approached it hesitantly, bending to face it. _I'm sorry. _

He reached out a hand, slowly. The fox's ears flattened against its skull for a second and then sagged down. It make a tiny whuffing noise like a sigh. Sam carefully brushed fingers along the fine-boned head, scritching behind the ears a little. _We'll find it. I promised, didn't I?_

_I need the ball. _It said, plaintive this time, like an exhausted child.

Sam stroked along the line of its spine in gentle motions. _It's okay. We'll find it. _A creak from upstairs made them both freeze. _We should go. We can come back later if we need to._

The fox took one final, almost despondent, look around the living room before nodding.

* * *

A soft _thud _woke Ben Ellis from a troubled sleep. He blinked up at the dark ceiling, his head still wandering in dreams where redheaded women snarled at him like animals.

The air smelled strange around him, like drying grass. He frowned, sitting up in bed. There was nothing out of place in the room. Nothing moving.

A door closed somewhere downstairs, a tiny click of a lock breaking the silence of the sleeping house.

Ben was on his feet in a second, lunging across the room to his cell phone. His heart was pounding and his fingers fumbled at the keys. He forced them to work, taking deep breaths to try and calm his wavering vision.

_Mom. _

The thought had him chewing on his lip, eyes fixed on the closed door of his room. If he opened it, what would he find? An image assaulted him, vivid in his mind; the redhead standing there in the hallway just waiting for him to open the door, her mouth spotted with blood like a vampire, bared teeth in a sick smile. His mom lying dead on the carpet behind her, sightless eyes open, accusing. He clenched his jaw and tore his eyes away, focusing on the phone. Dean. Dean had promised to help him. Dean would come if he called.

* * *

"Okay, so we at least have a _lead _now, right?" Dean said, looking expectantly over at his dad and Jim. He held the glowing ball in one hand, twisting it in the dim light thrown from the bare bulb above his head.

"No, we have a _ball_. A ball that this – whatever – apparently wants, but still, just a ball." His dad said, rubbing a hand over his face.

Dean pursed his lips, dropping the ball onto the empty bed with more force than necessary. His dad was right, something in him conceded. It wasn't a lead. It wasn't going to bring Sam running back. But it was something, at least. More than they had before.

Jim let out a heavy breath. He looked exhausted, Dean realised. John wasn't faring much better, despite the week of sleep he must have had. Both men looked ready to drop.

"Dean, we shouldn't get our hopes up too much. You know we can't do anything with that ball until we figure out what we're dealing with and what exactly it wants, right?" Jim said, his forehead creased.

"Jim…"

"No, Dean. I know how much you want Sam back; we all do. But we need to know more…"

Jim's voice was cut off by the trill of Dean's cell. Dean picked it up, frowning when he saw Ben's name appear on the screen.

"Ben? What's up, man, it's like four in the…" He was cut off by Ben's urgent whisper.

"_Dean? Dean, god it was in my house! She was here, she…I don't know if she's gone…"_

Dean tightened his grip on the cell phone, glancing over at Jim and John who were both watching him with alert eyes, all tiredness gone from their faces. "Ben, wait up a sec. The redhead? She was in your house?"

"_Yes! God, what if she hurt my mom? Oh God…"_

"Hey, hey, calm down, okay?" Dean sat on the bed and started pulling his shoes on one-handed as he talked "Look, just sit tight, we'll be there in ten minutes. Don't move, okay?"

"_Okay. Just…hurry. Please."_

Dean flipped the phone closed, reaching for his jacket. "Ben's in trouble. It showed up at his house." He looked up to see Jim and his dad were already by the door waiting.

* * *

They pulled up outside Ben's house in record time. John insisted on driving, despite Jim's protests that the truck would skid on the ice, spin out of control and they'd all die a horrible flaming death. Privately Dean agreed with the Pastor's assessment, but when his father's eyes had fallen on him for the deciding vote, he hadn't been able to stop himself sticking up for the man. He knew his dad and as much at the man tried to hide it, Dean had knocked his confidence by walking out earlier. Sam would have mocked him and hit him around the head for it, but Dean couldn't help the way he was wired; to obey his dad's orders and follow his lead. To fix up the hurts they caused each other the best way he knew how.

He maybe regretted it a little now, stepping out of the backseat and rubbing his head where he'd knocked it on the side window on a tight corner. His stomach was churning like he'd been on a rollercoaster. John flashed a look in his direction and Dean quickly pasted on his game face to hide the nausea.

The house looked quiet from the outside. No lights were on, nothing moved.

Jim silently passed him a handgun. Dean took it, thumbing off the safety.

"C'mon, let's move." John said without taking his eyes off the house.

The snow crunched underfoot, loud to Dean's ears. He wondered if whatever-it-was could hear them coming, was waiting for them inside the door. The sky was gradually gaining colour, grey clouds suffused with filtered dawn. It lit up the street, and anyone awake at this hour would probably be wondering about the three men sneaking up the Ellis's front lawn with guns held at their sides like a bad SWAT team imitation.

John was first to the door, rattling the doorknob. Jim stood to one side, eyes fixed on the little pathway around the side of the house.

"Dean, get us in." John murmured, the sound barely carrying further than the mist of breath. Dean slid onto the porch step beside his dad and dropped to his knees, searching his pockets for the lock picks. John stood watch as Dean fumbled at the door with numb fingers. He should really remember to wear gloves.

The lock clicked with a soft noise and Dean swung the door open, his gun aimed into the hallway.

Nothing moved. The hall looked exactly as it had yesterday; same sunflower yellow walls, same rows of tiny porcelain fairy ornaments. They seemed to be staring at Dean, their faces rapt and frozen in ecstasy. He frowned hard at them for good measure and moved slowly through the house, gun held in both hands and pointed at the floor.

Behind him he could hear his dad and Jim slipping in. The door closed with a gentle bump.

The living room door was open to his left, the kitchen straight ahead. He paused, back against the wall. John slid silently past him, nodding for him to carry on into the kitchen. Dean bit his lip, nodded back woodenly. He could hear Jim tiptoeing up the stairs to search the upper floor without waiting to be told. Of course John had briefed the other man before they came in. And of course, Dean hadn't been let in on the plan. His part only involved searching the kitchen apparently, why would he need to know that beforehand?

Taking a deep breath, he moved on. No time to argue now, not that he would.

The kitchen appeared to be empty, washed dishes stacked neatly on the countertop and chairs tucked under the table. Dean checked the door leading into the backyard, found it locked.

Nothing. No place for a full-grown woman to hide, unless she was a contortionist in her spare time. Dean let out a sigh.

John appeared in the doorway, his gun held in one hand. "Anything?"

"Nothing here."

Two sets of footsteps on the stairs had them both tensing before Jim's low voice broke the sleeping quiet. "Just us. Nothing upstairs."

Ben stepped into the kitchen first, clad in black sweatpants that hung baggy on his legs. His face was milk-white and terrified. Jim followed him in, one hand on his shoulder.

"I heard her, something was definitely here!" Ben started in a voice that sounded too loud in the enclosed space. Dean raised a hand to cut him off.

"Hey, hey, we believe you. No need to talk us into it. But she ain't here now, so why don't you sit down?"

Ben looked up at him, his lower lip shaky. He stared for a long moment, until Dean felt uncomfortable and broke the gaze.

"Why was she here?" Ben said, quietly now.

"My guess? She wanted that ball." Jim said, a deep frown creasing his features.

"But I don't have it anymore! I gave it to you guys!"

John reached out a hand and awkwardly patted the boy on the shoulder. "Maybe she doesn't know that. But either way, it doesn't matter. We'll take care of it." Ben seemed to breathe a little easier at the assurance.

"Why don't you tell us what you heard?" John said, steering him into a seat with an authoritative hand. Taking charge of the situation, like he always did.

Dean huffed quietly to himself. "I'm gonna go search outside, see if there's anything around." He didn't wait for an answer before walking out. Ben's eyes were boring into the back of his jacket and he felt absurdly humiliated.

He'd _promised_. He'd promised the boy that nothing would happen to him, that he'd take care of it. Dean stepped out the front door, closing it carefully behind him. He let out a long breath, watching absently as it billowed out in a cloud that hung in the frigid air for long seconds before dissipating. _Should've known better_, he thought scornfully, _should have known better than to make false promises, considering I'm already inches away from breaking the one I made to Sammy. _

Dean stepped off the low front step, dropping to sit despite the layer of snow covering it. He put his head in his hands, staring blankly at the plain white stretch between his booted feet.

The sound of the door opening brought his head up.

"Dean? You okay?" John took a step outside, catching his eyes for a second before lowering himself to sit beside Dean.

Dean didn't look up. "I'm fine, dad. Just…worried about Sam, is all."

"Son, what I said before – you know I didn't mean anything by it? I wasn't trying to imply that you can't take care of your brother." John paused, looking off into the distance like there was something to see there "You…you take better care of Sam than I could. Than _anyone _could."

"Yeah well, it didn't do much good, did it? Sam still got…got taken." Dean said bitterly.

The hand on his shoulder was a surprise. He looked up to see John's face, as steady as his grip. "Son, we'll find Sam. We _will_. Him being taken, it wasn't your fault anymore than it was Jim's. You were both there, and neither of you saw anything. What we're dealing with; it's smart. But we'll beat it."

Dean nodded, unable to speak. He searched his dad's eyes, looking for anything that said he might be putting on a brave front, hiding his feelings. John smiled softly at him, patting him on the back. "And maybe when we get Sam back, I'll come spend a few days at Jim's. Sam can show me those flowers he kept going on about."

Dean choked out a strangled laugh. "Okay, now I _know _you're just trying to make me feel better, dad."

John shook his head, a half-smile on his lips. "Well, maybe we can leave out the flower part." He sighed, his face turning serious. "Dean, I know I upset you before. I just – I want us to be _family _again. Close, like it was when you boys were little."

Dean closed his eyes, feeling the chill of the wind chap at his mouth. God, he'd waited for _years _to hear that come from someone other than himself. Family. The three of them, together.

Except it didn't feel as sweet as he'd expected it to. Didn't feel _right_.

"Are you gonna stop hunting? Be around more, at least?"

There was no hesitation in his father's voice. "Yes. Dean, I promise. Unless something big comes up…"

Dean snorted, a big fake smile cracking his face. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

"Dean, I mean it…"

He turned to face his dad, his lips pressed together hard. His chest ached like he'd swallowed a chunk of ice. The most hurtful thing was, he was pretty sure his dad _did _mean it. Would set aside time to see his boys with the best of intentions. But something would come up and they'd get a call from Louisiana, or Texas, or Long Island, saying he'd been delayed this weekend, maybe next week.

Something big always came up.

He softened his voice, swallowing around the chunk. "I know. I know you do, dad. But you don't need to worry. Sam and me, we'll be okay. I'll take care of him. And," he paused, looking his dad in the eye through a sudden haze of tears "When you do visit, it'll be good. Nice, to see you."

John was frowning, the fine lines creasing his eyes pulled deep as canyons. He opened his mouth, shut it again without saying anything. Dean looked blankly out into the expanse of snow covering the front lawn, just now catching the first rays of morning slipping beneath the clouds. From the corner of his eye he saw John swallow hard and start to talk again.

But there was something, something catching his gaze and for a second Dean just stared. Prints, deep in the snow. Leading to the porch where he was seated. The light illuminated them, making the dips and valleys sharp contrasts of shadow. There was another set of the same footprints leading away from the house.

He stood, walking over to the clearest of the imprints.

They were made by sneakers. Men's sneakers. And beside them, neatly spaced and almost elegant, lay a set of paw prints.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) This takes place after 'Further And Further Out', so you'll probably want to read that first :)

Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I really appreciate hearing what you guys think :) And I had a few days off, which meant I was able to finish this up ahead of schedule! So instead of making you guys wait, I thought I'd post it all at once :) Hope you like…

Chapter 9

The clouds were breaking up overhead. They hung low in the sky, bruise-grey bellies swollen with the threat of more snow, but gently glowing golden light slipped through the cracks around the edges, softening the harsh morning.

The wind tasted clean, Sam thought vaguely, and resisted the urge to stick his tongue out for a better sample. His hands were fisted deep in the pockets of his hoody, his shoulders hunched even though the brisk wind didn't affect him. Another of the fox's magic tricks, he supposed.

It probably should have been alarming how quickly he came to accept the strange things. The laws of science and environment and space, they all worked differently when he was in the presence of the fox. But his mind had been a far stranger place for so long he'd almost become acclimatised to weird things happening in his vicinity. This was no stranger than seeing things that hadn't happened yet, he supposed.

They were walking aimlessly. Sam smiled a little when he thought of the picture they must present; a man and his fox walking side-by-side in companionable silence. And oddly enough, it _was _companionable. It reminded him of the times back when he was a moody teenager, hormones driving him and everyone else nuts. Dean would take him for a walk to cool off. Neither of them would say much, their attention on their feet as they put one in front of the other. But it was nice, knowing someone was there.

The small town centre was at the end of the road, and without conscious decision Sam headed toward it. The fox was apparently content to follow his lead, trotting elegantly in his tracks.

Even in the thick inches of snow, Sam could hear the cheerful noise of the market-traders setting up their stalls. A snow-plough had been out some time before dawn and the streets were filled with dirty mulched ice, churned and imprinted with thick tire-tracks. The sidewalks were untouched though, and Sam gave into the childish impulse to drag his feet, slipsliding along for a few yards before he lost his balance and had to windmill his arms crazily to avoid landing on his ass. The fox paused, watching him with daintily cocked head and strange eyes.

As they drew closer to the town the calls of the market grew; men bellowing and swearing and laughing with each other in friendly voices. There was the occasional loud thud as something was dropped, usually followed by exasperated noises.

The square came into view at the end of the road. Sam watched curiously, letting the bustle wash over him. None of the men seemed to notice him and he wondered if it was something else the fox had done, something that made them fade away into the background whenever anyone looked in their direction.

The theory was broken as one of the men, struggling to drag a thick tarp over the bare poles that made his stall, called over to him.

"Hey, tall kid! Mind giving me a hand here?"

Sam glanced around quickly. Seeing no one else in sight, he shrugged and made his way to the stall. "Sure."

He grabbed the other end of the tarp, hauling it up and over his head while the guy strapped it down on the metal scaffolding. The fox waited patiently on the sidewalk, out of the way. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam watched it sniff delicately at the snow before turning and settling on its haunches. The long red tail curled neatly around its paws like an expensive wrap.

He struggled with the tarp, doing most of the heavy work while the smaller guy tied it to the corners of the shelter. By the time the guy was finished, he was dragging in breaths like he'd run a race.

"Thanks kid." The guy said, already looking over at the crates loaded in his van with obvious reluctance. "Haven't seen you around here before. You new in town?"

"Yeah, something like that."

The guy nodded vaguely. "Yeah, thought so. Woulda remembered a big tall guy like you around." He walked over to the back of the van without looking at Sam.

Just as Sam began walking away, the guy called out to him again. "Hey!" He turned in time to catch the paper-wrapped package the man threw to him. It smelled of blood and felt weighty and moist. Peeling back the top layer, he saw a cut of raw meat marbled with fine white lines. Sam looked up with a frown. "'S'no good to me, won't sell with all that fat runnin' through it. Thought you might want it. Y'can give it to your fox." The guy nodded at the sidewalk with a bland look before turning back to unloading his truck. Sam blinked.

* * *

"So they can see you?" Sam said out loud, his voice dry.

He was sitting on a bench across from the marketplace, the fox at his feet chewing on the chunks of meat Sam tore off and held out to it. Some of the other men working at their stalls nodded to him as they set up, none with any apprehension in their expressions. He nodded back and looked away quickly, feeling vaguely dirty for no clear reason.

The fox licked its muzzle and rubbed a paw across its nose, cleaning up the traces of blood on its fine fur. _Yes. They will not remember us. To them, we are a dream._

"Oh." Sam was silent for a long moment. "How do you do it?"

_Illusion._ The fox replied, carefully washing between the black pads on its paw.

"Like at the diner? You made my brother see the waitress come over to our table."

_Yes. People that are susceptible will believe what I show them. _It said, a faint note of distain in its tone.

Sam frowned, looking down at the fox. "I saw the illusion _and _the real waitress."

The fox glanced up at him for a second before resuming its cleaning. _You have talents. You can see things others cannot. I knew as soon as your father entered the town that you would be the one I needed. I took him so that you would come._

Sam tensed up, his stomach twisting painfully. "What?"

A loud clang interrupted his thoughts and drew his attention to the market again. He watched distractedly as three men swore and made obscene gestures at each other, each one with a smile on his face to show he was joking. As a team, they retied the bundle of dropped scaffolding poles and hoisted them up to their shoulders, making their way to the centre of the marketplace.

It occurred to him that this was possibly the most stupid thing he'd ever done. People were worried about him, _looking _for him. They had no idea, he realised. No idea that his brain was working the way it should. They didn't know where he was, what he was doing. And what _was _he doing? Helping a possibly psychotic _fox _that had stolen him while he was stupid and blackmailed him into doing what it wanted.

Sam looked down at the fox. It was still carrying out its obsessive cleaning, seemingly unaware of Sam's thoughts. He opened his mouth, closed it again quickly before they could spill out into the air. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply through his nose, regaining his compose before speaking in a tightly controlled voice. "Why? How did you even know that I'd come?"

_I knew. You love your family, and you love your brother. If you sensed he was in danger, you would come._

Sam dropped the package of meat onto the bench. It fell with a wet plop. Beyond them, the market traders carried on as if there was nothing out of the ordinary. The smell of overripe vegetables filled the air. "You sent me that vision, that night in the bar. You tried to _seduce _Dean so that I would call him."

_I did. _The fox replied unashamedly. _I also sent the vision of your father. I could not take the risk that your bother might send another in his place to search for him. _It continued methodically licking at its paws, using them to tug its ears down one at a time.

"Why me? Why go to all this trouble to get me here; kidnapping my father, threatening my brother? Why?"

At the question the fox stopped in its cleaning and met Sam's eyes, one paw still suspended in the air. _Because I _need_ that ball. _

Sam slapped a hand on the wooden armrest of the bench. The heavy thud was muffled by the layer of snow covering it. "What the _hell _is so important about that damned ball?"

_I need it. _The fox said simply.

"No. You don't get to pull all this _crap_, and then tell me nothing! I won't help you unless you tell me."

The fox looked at Sam steadily. For a moment Sam thought he'd pushed too far. But then, almost imperceptibly the fox lowered its face. _It is who I am. Without it, I cannot survive._

"What are you?" Sam asked quietly.

_I am kitsune. A spirit of the mountains, of the woodland. I have lived here for longer than you can imagine. _

"Kitsune." Sam frowned, old lessons and research ticking through his mind like he was flicking through a filing cabinet. The desire to _know_ that had been taken from him the night Jessica died lit up again in his mind, overriding the anger. The tiny snatch of information he recalled was vague. "That's-that's Japanese, isn't it? A fox-spirit, a trickster."

The fox's head flew up. _Trickster? I do not _trick

"Yeah? Seems like you do to me. I mean, if you can manipulate people into doing whatever you want, seeing whatever you want, that sounds like a_ trick_." Sam spat out viciously before he could stop himself. The fox looked steadily on with unblinking eyes, and part of the hot rage cooled a little. "I don't get it. How did some random _boy _find your ball?"

The fox looked down at the ground, and if Sam had any money he would have bet it was blushing under the red fur of its coat. _It is kept in a secret place. Most men do not see it. But I was...careless. I did not sense the talents of the boy._

"Talents? You mean, he's like me?" Sam said, eyebrows raised.

_He has some minor abilities. Enough to notice an object of power when he is confronted with one. _

Sam sighed, slumping down on the bench. The snow squeaked as he moved, soaking into the seat of his jeans. He was glad none of the men in front of him would remember if he had to go walking around with a wet patch on his ass. "So what are we supposed to do now, if the kid doesn't have the ball?"

The fox didn't answer. When Sam looked down, he saw it hunched over the curled tip of its tail, like it was a flame keeping it warm. When it answered, the arrogance that had frosted its tone was gone.

_I do not know. _

* * *

When Ben Ellis's mother came downstairs at seven-thirty, her hair a tangled mess and a dressing gown loosely knotted around her pyjamas, she was understandably surprised to find three men sat around her kitchen table looking like someone had died while her son made coffee.

Dean didn't look up from his intense study of the wood grain between his spread fingers, even as Mrs Ellis was ushered from the room by her son. He didn't pay attention as Jim and Ben tried to reassure her, feeding her lines about 'church business' and Ben's sudden desperate urge to consult with not one but three Pastors in the middle of the night.

His mind was still trapped in the snow outside. The footprints that belonged to his brother.

The indentations and markings in the snow were made by the sneakers he'd bought Sam when they'd first arrived at Jim's. Sam hadn't liked wearing boots. Laces were tricky things, and it was touch-and-go whether or not he'd have the attention span to tie them properly, or at all. The sneakers had been the last pair in the shop, the only pair big enough to fit his brother's giant feet. They were white leather with blue gummy soles and Velcro fastenings at the sides, and Sam had loved them so much that he'd refused to wear them outside for a week in case they got dirty. They'd probably be soaked through by now if Sam had been wearing them all night. Dean found himself hoping Sam had remembered to wear warm socks.

There was no doubt in his mind that Sam had been outside the Ellis's house. But it stuttered and failed like a dying car battery when he followed the line of thought to its obvious conclusion.

The prints had been evenly spaced, the tread neat and purposeful. They led from the street straight to the Ellis's front door, no wandering or pausing.

Sam as he was now would have been meandering all over the street, attention drawn by this car wing mirror or that funny-shaped azalea bush covered in snow. Sam being taken somewhere against his will would have been putting up a struggle.

There were no signs of hesitation in those tracks.

"Are you _sure _they're Sam's footprints?" John asked for maybe the thirtieth time.

"I'm sure. Those are the sneakers he was wearing, I put them on him myself."

"Sam's not the only person in the world with those sneakers, Dean."

Dean looked up, his lips pursed. "They're the same size as Sam's, the same pattern on the sole. It's too much of a coincidence for it _not _to be Sam."

Jim rejoined them at the kitchen table, leaving Ben in the living room with his mother. Her confused questions were audible even through the closed door. "Dean's right. We have to assume that Sam was here."

John rubbed at the stubble on his chin. His face looked haggard, Dean realised, dry and tired like he'd aged ten years in a night. He picked up the cup of coffee sitting in front of him, raising it to his mouth. "Okay. Say it is Sam. Say he was here. Why?" He put the cup down on the table again without drinking, looking over at Jim. "Was he being controlled by something? Is something trying to use him to get the ball?"

Dean picked up his own cup, swallowing a mouthful of the hot liquid and barely noticing when it burned his tongue. "The second set of prints. The animal tracks."

"Are we sure they're relevant? The neighbour's cat could have happened to pass through during the night." Jim said, a considering look creasing his forehead.

"We can't rule them out. Not until we know." Dean sighed heavily, dropping his half-empty mug with a thud and scratching at his scalp irritably. His hair felt greasy and stiff. He closed his eyes, momentarily immersing himself in a fantasy; hot shower, soap and lots of it, naked Sam pressed up against his side.

His dad's voice shattered the image pretty quickly, and Dean felt a warm blush sneak up on him. He was suddenly uncomfortably aware of the not-yet-faded lovebite sucked onto his inner thigh, compliments of Sam, and the fact that he happened to be sitting at a table with his father and a man of God. Fortunately neither seemed to notice anything.

"Well if they have anything to do with this, then they could be a pretty big clue." John stood suddenly, pushing his chair back with a loud scraping sound. "Has Ben got a computer with internet access?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Dad, have you _seen _Ben? Kid's a bigger geek than Sam was at that age. Of course he's got a computer."

John nodded. "Good. Dean, ask if you can use it."

"Why?" Dean frowned, looking up at his dad.

"Because we need to narrow this down. If it's what I think it is, we might just have a way to kill it."

John turned away, apparently content to leave everyone else in the dark. Dean could almost hear Sam's shrill and righteous indignation in his head. But Sam wasn't here to protest. Sam wasn't _here_, and the thought was enough to bring Dean to his feet.

He grabbed his dad's arm before he could walk out of the room. "That's it? You have an idea what this thing is, but you're not gonna clue the rest of the class in?"

John turned to face him. "Dean, we don't have time for an argument."

"No, we don't. So why don't you tell me what I'm supposed to be looking for, and then maybe I can actually _help_."

His dad sighed, ducking his head. When he met Dean's eyes, Dean could see resignation mixed with some emotion he couldn't identify.

John nodded stiffly, as if the movement was hard for him to make. "Okay, son."

* * *

"A kitsune. Malicious trickster. It can take the shape of a beautiful woman or an old man, or it can possess people. Their power source, get this, comes from what the Japanese call a _kitsune ball_, kept hidden in the place they draw their spiritual energy from. Gives us an explanation for the dying forests; if its power source is connected to nature then maybe removing it means everything starts to die." Dean announced, dropping a sheaf of computer printouts onto the kitchen table for Jim to read. John was nowhere to be seen, his jacket missing from the chair and his mug of untouched coffee cold in its place.

"The only way of killing a kitsune is to destroy the power source. So all we gotta do is break that damn ball." Dean said, unable to stop the giddy feeling spinning through his head. He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, searching through the pockets for the keys to the Impala.

"Dean, wait." Jim said, his eyes focused on the papers in front of him. "It says here that there are two types of kitsume; _myobo_, or light, and _nogitsune_, dark. How do we know which one our kitsune is?"

Dean looked at him, mouth open. "Seriously? You're seriously questioning whether a creature that _steals people _is good or bad?"

"I'm not saying it's _good_. I'm just saying that if the ball is its power source, then it was obviously going to be angered by Ben taking it."

"Well if it was so angry it just decided to snatch up random people, like _my dad _and _Sam_, who clearly didn't have anything to do with Ben stealing the stupid ball, then in my book it's a _bad thing_. And we know how to deal with bad things." Dean said. He pulled the keys out of his jacket and turned to Jim, determination clenching his jaw. "I'm going to get the ball. We can finish this shit right now and be back home in a couple of days."

Jim looked up slowly, dragging his gaze from the page in front of him with what looked like considerable effort. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?" Dean heard the whine in his voice.

"Because if it's possessing Sam in some way, then we don't know what effect killing it might have on him. It could rip his mind apart."

Dean felt his stomach drop, the floating hope he'd been carrying since his dad told him what they were dealing with punctured like a balloon at the mental picture of a Sam regressed to the comatose body he had been months ago. Only this time, his brother might not be able to find his way back again. The keys felt heavy in his hand, a cold dead weight.

Jim continued speaking. "We need to find some way of attracting them both _here_. If we could break its hold on Sam…" He began to flick through the papers laid out on the table again.

Dean dropped into a chair, landing heavily. He watched distantly as Jim reorganised the papers, seemingly no longer aware of his presence. He felt like screaming. Patience was never something he was good at, and his fingers itched for something to _do_, some way to be useful. He wanted his brother back, damnit, and he wanted him _now_.

John clomped loudly into the kitchen, melting snow dripping off his boots in wet globs. His jacket was on, done up to the throat to protect against the bitter wind outside, and in his hand he held a paper bag. He looked expectantly over at Dean. "Well?"

"I think you were right. A kitsune matches all the patterns. All we need to do to destroy it is break the ball, but Jim says if it has Sam possessed then it might hurt him." Dean recited vacantly, propping elbows onto the table and leaning his head in his hands.

John nodded like he'd expected to hear it. "There's a ritual we can do, a summoning ritual. It's supposed to attract spirits, which is essentially what a kitsune is, so I'm hoping it will work."

Dean looked up to see his dad's expression turn furtive. "What? That's good, right? What's the problem?"

John let out a sigh, finally meeting Dean's eyes. "We'll need Ben to be the bait."

* * *

Ben stood in the centre of his backyard, shivering.

His mom had, after much reassuring, eventually left for work, leaving Ben in the supposedly-capable hands of the 'Pastors'. Who were currently lighting fairy candles and burning incense. He resisted the urge to run away screaming.

At least the oldest guy, Jim, actually appeared to be a Pastor. He was dressed up in black robes, the white dog collar at his neck seeming stark and out of place as a hangman's noose amongst all this blasphemy. His mom had warned him of the dangers of paganism, told him to stay away from it, even if his friends said it was 'cool'. He hadn't told her that the only kids who hung around with him were the geeks who got their glasses broken at recess. And after the redhead messed with the jocks at the diner, he doubted he would ever be considered cool enough to be invited to any theoretical pagan rituals anyway.

He shivered again, wrapping both arms around his stomach. The snow had stopped in the night, but the wind was harsh as a knifeblade and bit through his clothing like it was nothing. Dean had steered him to the very centre of the yard and told him to stay, like he was a pet dog. The snow seemed to have accumulated around his snowboots, packing them down until he could only see the tops of his feet. Despite the sheepskin inners, his toes ached with cold.

"Are we nearly done yet?" He called through his chattering teeth.

Jim looked at him with a kind expression. "Not yet, son. It might be a while."

Dean didn't even look up, his mouth set in a hard line. Ben told himself he wasn't disappointed that the older guy didn't seem to care about him anymore. Not now he had a chance to get his 'Sammy' back. He pressed his chin down into his chest so that Dean was no longer in his line of sight.

The smell of incense suddenly got stronger, a warm woody scent that made him cough and wrinkle his nose.

He looked up, but no one was paying any attention to him. Dean was standing up straight and proud, holding a bundle of incense sticks in one hand. As Ben watched, he stuck the other into his jacket and pulled out a handgun. His face was gritty and determined, like the heroes on those old cop shows his dad had liked to watch. Dean held the gun with professional ease, his fingers light around the grip. He bent and stuck the incense in the snowy ground, packing the snow around it until it stood up by itself.

"Are we ready?" He called out to the other guy, the one who didn't say much. His dad, Ben assumed, unless Dean's calling him that meant something else to these guys. He didn't want to make a fool out of himself by asking.

The other guy glanced around at the rough circle of candles and incense they'd created. He gave one hard nod and pulled out his own gun from somewhere within his clothes. "Okay Jim, do your thing."

Ben looked around in surprise, wondering what the hell Jim's 'thing' was. He didn't expect the sudden splatter of water to hit him in the face. It was shockingly cold and he tried to step back, but his feet were firmly encased in the snow and he ended up falling onto his ass. He could practically _see _any cool points he might have gained in Dean's eyes floating away. Blushing furiously, he scrubbed at the wet spots with a fist and kicked his feet free.

"Sorry, sorry. Are you okay?" Jim asked, putting down the metal canister of water and leaning over to help him up. "I should have told you what to expect."

"Uh, yeah, might have been nice. What was that for?"

"Holy water. It'll hopefully stop the kitsune from being able to touch you."

Ben blinked up at the Pastor for a second. "Um, the what?"

"The redhead." Dean chimed in, sounding irritable. "Now, can we get moving with this? Dunno if anyone else has noticed, but it's kinda cold out."

Ben nodded quickly, ducking his head down to hide the stubborn blush. Jim started flicking more water at him, muttering words under his breath. Ben didn't make any attempt to wipe them away this time, even though each drop felt like it was turning to ice on his skin.

After a few more flicks, Jim stepped back, looking expectantly over at Dean. Ben looked at him too, wondering what the hell came next in this freaky ritual.

He nearly lost his balance and fell back on his ass when Dean approached him with the ball.

"What? What are you doing? I don't want it back!"

"Sorry kid. Gotta be done." Dean didn't look very sorry as he pushed the ball into Ben's unwilling hands. "Hold onto it. We don't want it breaking just yet."

"Why? What's going on?" Ben could hear his own voice, the terror rising in pitch. He fumbled with the ball, nearly dropped it, but Dean had told him not to break it so reluctantly he held on tight. "What's gonna happen?"

Dean glanced at him once, clearly disinterested in his fear. He went back to scouring the garden around them with narrowed eyes. "Hopefully, the girl's gonna turn up with my brother. Then we can get him back, kill her, and everyone can be on their merry way."

"And what about me? What if she comes after me when she sees I've got the ball?"

"She won't."

"How do you know?"

Dean finally looked at him for more than a second. Ben held his gaze, trying to convey the same kind of courage and bravery that Dean had, instead of the bedwetting terror he felt.

The older man stared for a long moment, his face blank. And then, almost unwillingly, his expression softened. "Look, she won't get you, alright. She won't be able to get through the circle. You'll be safe. My dad and Jim are just over there, and I won't leave your side, okay?"

Ben blinked, biting his lip to try and hold back the childish _you promise?_ It managed to escape anyway.

Dean looked pained for a second before it was wiped away, a mask of determination in its place. "Yeah. I promise."

* * *

After the fox finished the raw meat Sam followed it on a seemingly random path around the shopping centre. It was approaching nine in the morning and people were starting to appear, bundled up in thick coats and scarves. They gave Sam vague smiles as he passed, like he was a faint illusion fluttering in the corner of their eye. He'd noticed that some people, mostly the businessman types with briefcases and leather shoes, didn't see him at all, and more than once he'd had to dodge to one side to avoid being ploughed over. He wanted to ask the fox – the _kitsune_ – why, but after their argument he felt awkward and embarrassed, as if he'd had a tiff with a lover.

And _that _thought made him screw his face up and blush hotly. It wasn't bad enough that he'd apparently started a sexual relationship with his _brother_, now he was comparing his odd companionship with a fox-spirit to a domestic situation.

Although he could almost understand why. He'd encountered spirit-beings before, but never so intimately, and never had he been so connected to one. It was heady, the kind of power this thing wielded. The kind of influence it had. And it had chosen _him_, out of everyone.

A woman talking on her cell phone and carrying several large bags knocked into his side, spinning him around. Her phone fell to the floor with a clatter and Sam instinctively bent to pick it up. Before he could reach it, she'd snatched it away, eyes wide and set on his face.

"Uh, hey, I'm sorry. Are you okay?" Sam said, his best _I'm harmless_ face on. But she was backing away with the wariness of someone confronted by a feral dog, her phone clutched tight in her hand. Before Sam could say anything else, she turned and fled, looking over her shoulder with the same petrified expression.

"Okay, that was weird." Sam said, frowning.

The fox glanced over at him from its spot a few feet away. _Why? Because she was scared of you? You should not be surprised._

Sam looked at him, his frown deepening. "What do you mean?"

_She could feel you. The touch of my mind on your own. _

"Huh? You've…touched my mind?"

The fox held his gaze steadily. _Why do you think your thoughts are ordered now, when they were not before? I do not need the help of a child. I have no use for you as you were._

Sam stumbled backward, feeling a wall behind him and leaning heavily against it. "So…so when this is over, I'll go back to…to being like that again?"

_If you wish to._ The fox cocked its head._ When I have the ball, I will owe you one favour. If you wish to stay as you are now, it can be done._

Sam blinked, staring blankly ahead as his mind tried to process. He could choose? Why would there even need to _be _a choice? Between being normal again and being…_that_…

But he could remember, distantly, his awe at the softness of a cotton shirt. The almost overwhelming beauty of varnished wood. Feeling emotions like colours, living and vibrant and fresh.

And there was Dean to think of. Of course his brother wanted him to be better, but Sam had seen his happiness, his contentment. Living at Jim's had been good for him. He woke up smiling and cooked pancakes for breakfast. He sat with Sam and played monopoly, laughing when Sam forgot the rules and started building elaborate little towers out of the tiny metal pieces. The shadows under his eyes had disappeared and his hair turned blond after long hours sitting in the sun. Could Sam be normal again, force Dean back into hunting because he thought he couldn't do anything else without Sam to take care of? Sam could all too clearly see any _relationship _with Dean being dropped, never to be spoken of again, because Sam would never get a chance to explain that Dean loved him in the best way he knew how and Sam would never think Dean took advantage of him in any way.

He'd barely had time to process how he felt about his brother now. How he would feel about continuing – or putting a stop to – the kisses, the touches, sharing the same bed at night and waking up held close to Dean's chest.

The fox nudged at his leg with its nose, and Sam started. He hadn't even noticed it moving.

_We do not have time to stand staring at these people. _It said, deigning to cast haughty eyes over the melee of shoppers walking back and forth in front of them. _We must go. _

Sam laughed incredulously. "Go where, exactly? Do you have a plan now, 'cause I don't?"

The fox nipped at him, sharp teeth catching the skin of his calf through his jeans. He yelped and jumped back. "Hey!"

_Just come. We should not stay here too long. _

Sam let out a dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes upward at the grey clouds still threatening more snow. The fox ignored him, trotting on ahead as if it didn't care whether he followed or not. Sam followed.

It was half an hour later that Sam realised they had returned to the market square they'd started in. Now it was filled with milling people, vendors calling out to shoppers and waving bags of vegetables and wrapped parcels of meat. Children laughed, screaming and chasing one another in the slushy road while their parents tried unsuccessfully to wave them over to their sides.

"Is there a reason we're back here?" Sam asked, not bothering to look at the fox. It didn't reply, and Sam finally huffed and looked down by his side.

The fox sat on the sidewalk, head pointed downward. Its ears were limp, giving it a bedraggled look. The lustre of its red coat seemed to have dimmed. Sam couldn't help the ache he felt in his chest.

He stepped to the side of the road, lowering himself to sit beside the fox.

"Hey. It's okay. We'll find a way to get the ball." The fox didn't look at him and Sam sighed, crossing his arms to form a bridge on his bent knees. "Is there a specific reason I can't just go and _ask _the kid? I mean, maybe he'd give it back."

That had the fox's head whipping up like a pulled trigger. _No! He stole it! I tried promising him favours, as I did for your assistance, but he refused. _

Sam raised a hand in surrender. "Okay, okay. We'll find some other way."

At that moment something pinged in his head, like a single note plucked on a guitar, high and unwavering. It drowned out the noise of the market and Sam twisted around, trying to see what had caused it. None of the people on the busy street seemed to have noticed, still going about their business and ignoring him as best they could.

The fox had noticed, its ears pricking up and tail sweeping in broad agitated swipes.

"Did you…"

_The ball! _

It was on its feet and running before Sam could move.

"Hey! Wait!" He scrambled to his feet, slipping in the snow and feeling it soak into the cuff of his jeans. Wet and cold, and wasn't the fox supposed to be shielding this from him? "Wait!"

The children playing in the street stopped what they were doing, looking at him with curious eyes as he stumbled after the fox, sliding again and catching himself on the side of a building. The brick prickled his palm, a rough sudden burn. He ignored it, tailing the fox and its distinctive red coat.

It disappeared around a corner, Sam tumbling after it, clumsy on his feet. The singing note didn't fade, seemed to get louder as he ran, and he realised he was running _toward _it. Soon it filled his head, all he could hear.

A truck skidded to a halt, kicking up thick clods of wet ice as he ran across a road. It stopped inches from his outstretched arm, the driver leaning out the window to yell before blinking stupidly and glancing around. Sam didn't stop, didn't bother to look his way.

The fox was still loping ahead and Sam could barely keep up, even once his long legs hit their stride. The snow didn't seem as slippery now, barely there. If Sam had looked behind him, he would have noticed he was leaving no footprints in the snow.

With the black-tipped tail as a guide, Sam shut out everything else. The ping was still echoing in his head but he ignored it. He had to get to the fox. He had to stop…

Stop what?

He dismissed the thought, focusing on his steady breathing. In and out, short puffs that didn't mist in front of his face. It didn't matter, nothing mattered. He just had to get there.

They were on a street, a street he half-recognised, but the light was wrong, it had been darker…

The street the boy lived on. The house the boy lived _in_, and the fox was too far ahead of him, was already disappearing into the bushes by the side of the house.

Sam followed it, rounding the corner of the house and hearing _Dean's voice_. "Stop right there, you sonovabitch. Where the hell is my brother?"

* * *

Dean stood in front of Ben, who was shaking so hard the ball nearly slipped through his fingers. He spared a quick glance back at the kid, narrowed eyes telling him to _calm the fuck down, it'll be alright_. He hoped.

When a flash of red appeared, leaping out of the bushes in a flurry of snow, Dean nearly pulled the trigger of his gun in surprise. On either side, safely within the protective circle, his dad and Jim aimed their guns without hesitation.

Dean took a step forward before he could stop himself, hearing Ben's frightening gasp as he moved away. "Stop right there, you sonovabitch. Where the hell is my brother?" He barked, his fingers tightening on the gun until his grip was almost painful.

Standing outside the circle, a fox cocked its head. Its ears were back, lying flat against its head, and its lips were drawn in a snarl. Before Dean had time to blink, it disappeared, the redhead from the bar in its place.

Ben let out a yelp.

"Give me the ball!" She yelled, green eyes blazing with anger.

Dean's mouth twisted. "Where's my _brother_, bitch?"

"Dean, wait!" Dean turned to the side of the house at the voice, every muscle in his body tense and pulsing in time with his rapid heartbeat. The voice sounded like…

His brother ran into the backyard, skidding to a halt in a move that looked too graceful on his long coltish limbs.

Dean nearly dropped to the ground in sheer _relief_. Sam's hair was hanging in his face and he was breathing fast, cheeks pink. The legs of his jeans were dark with wet patches. Dean never wanted to look at anything else ever again.

"Sam. Sammy." He couldn't seem to get any other words out, everything in him filled with _Sam_ until he felt like he was drowning in it. He took a step in Sam's direction, gun forgotten in his hand.

"Dean!" Ben's scream, fractured and desperate, barely filtered through, and even when it did Dean couldn't find it in him to care. He wanted his brother, damnit. He wanted his Sam.

But Sam was holding up a hand as he dragged in long breaths, his eyes wide and scared. "Dean, you can't kill it. Wait, _please_."

"Sam?" He blinked, his mouth opening to speak words he hadn't gathered together yet.

"Dean, you gotta listen to me, man. It's not _bad_. It doesn't want to hurt anyone, it just wants the ball back." Sam was pleading, his eyes big in his head. Pleading, like he had when he wanted to stay behind and revise for the SATS rather than go on the werewolf hunt in Illinois. Like when he told dad he was leaving for school, and later begged Dean to come with him.

Sam was talking in whole sentences and looking at him like he could see and focus and remember, he wasn't fidgeting or tapping or looking for a new shiny thing to play with. His eyes were clear and bright and anxious, just a little sleep-deprived but that was only to be expected, he'd been out all night…

Sam, whole and _better_, his mind fixed and straight again. Sam back to normal.

Dean felt his head spinning, his stomach cramping like he'd swallowed a hundred live spiders and they were trying to crawl back up his throat. Like everything was light and sweet and airy and _good_, because Sam was better again. Sam was fixed. Was he supposed to be happy or sad?

Would Sam stay?

"Dean!" The grating shout of his dad made him glance away from his miraculous, terrifying brother, just for a second. "The _job_!"

The job. Always the job. His job.

He could hunt again, now that Sam was well. Dean blinked, regaining his bearings and feeling his purpose push everything that could _wait until later _to one side.

The body-warmed metal of the gun in his hand had never felt so much like a blessing. He knew this, was good at this. This was his life.

He turned back to the redhead, sparing another quick glance for his brother.

She had begun to pace, quick powerful steps back and forth outside the circle. Her eyes never left Ben.

"Give me my ball, boy. You stole it from me. Give it _back_."

Ben was clutching the ball to his chest with both hands, his eyes blank with panic. His body was wracking with shudders like he was having a fit, and Dean remembered his promise. Sam was okay. Ben needed to be too.

"Ben, hold onto that ball. It's okay, she can't get to you." He said in a low voice, not taking his eyes off the woman.

She was wearing a thin white dress that hung off her shoulders, baggy around her waist and brushing her calves but still managing to hint at curves. Her feet were bare, and Dean noticed that sometimes they left footprints behind, sometimes not.

Jim stepped forward, the canister of holy water in one hand and the gun in the other. Almost under his breath, he began reciting something in Latin. The woman didn't seem to care, not sparing the Pastor a glance, but Dean noticed her legs dragging like she was being forced back.

"Dean, please, you have to listen to me!" Sam's voice was crisp and clear, ringing out like a chime. "It's not gonna hurt anyone! It just wants the ball and then it'll go back to where it came from. It didn't mean for the crop failures to happen."

Without looking at him, Dean spoke in a hard voice. "How about kidnapping, Sam? Did it mean to do that?"

"Dean…"

"Did it possess you? Did it make you walk out of that diner?" _and away from me_, he wanted to add.

"No! It-it asked me to go with it. To help it. All it wanted was the ball."

Dean did look at his brother then. "What? You walked out on your own? You…you just left? Sam, we were worried _sick_!" The pent-up aggression was a knot in his chest, sore and angry.

Sam left by himself?

Sam had on the determined face he'd pulled so many times before, the _I know I was doing the right thing_ face that wound Dean up _so tight_. He took a step closer to the circle, arms spread wide.

"I'm sorry, okay, I didn't mean to scare you, but I _had to_."

"How did it fix you?" Dean asked sharply.

Sam blinked, looking taken-aback. "What?"

"How did it fix you, Sam? What did you let it do? What did you promise it in return, because I _know _these things don't just do favours out of the goodness of their hearts. What have you got to do for it?"

"I haven't got to do anything!" Sam started.

Before he could continue, the silky sinuous voice of the redhead broke in, amusement dark as coal colouring her tone. "Sam didn't promise me anything in return for his sanity. I gave him that because I need him whole. However, I did promise _him_ a favour in return for that ball." She blinked, a twisted smirk playing on her red-pouted lips. She stopped her pacing and turned her body to face Dean, hands clasped on either side of her body in the material of her dress. "He can keep his sanity, or not, as he chooses. But only if I get my ball."

Dean frowned, his heart pounding. Sam sane…Sam not sane? A choice, for Sam, for his brother to decide which way he wanted to live. Against his will, Dean felt a surge of hope rise in his chest, warm as honey and milk. Sam could decide. And Dean, Dean would know for sure what Sam wanted. That what he was giving his brother was what Sam wanted.

"What's the catch?" It was his dad's voice, rumbling and hot like an angry bear. Dean looked up in surprise. He'd almost forgotten that it wasn't just him, the girl and Sam. That there were three other people waiting on an unknown move, either by him or by the redhead.

She turned to face his father, the humour gone from her face. "No catch. I get my ball, Sam gets his choice."

"And the boy?" John said slowly, his face saying he wasn't buying any of it.

She tilted her head to one side, blinking languidly. When she began to speak, it was with no infliction, no pleasure. "He stole from me, he forced me against my will. I didn't choose to be here, like this. I was content to be alone in my forest, as I have been for thousands of years. But he was impertinent. He deserves what he gets. He will die."

"But-but I didn't mean to! I didn't kn-know! I'm sorry, please, I'm sorry!" Ben cried out. Dean turned, saw him stagger backward in an instinctive move to get away. He tripped on the mounds of snow about his feet, landing hard. The ball was still cradled in his hands though, still unbroken. Tears streamed down his face, seeming to bleach it of all colour. "Please, just take the ball and go. I'll-I'll never do it again, I swear."

The redhead shook her head impassively.

"Wait! You said he wouldn't be hurt!" Sam said, edging his way to her side around the circle. His face was a mask of betrayal, and bizarrely Dean wanted to tell him off, remind him that he should never trust these things.

"No. I said you wouldn't have to hurt him. I said nothing about my own vengeance." She said without looking at Sam.

Instead she was staring straight at Dean, her eyes as direct as a bullet to the heart. "If you want your brother's sanity, you will give me the ball."

Dean met Sam's eyes, liquid-wet and holding everything he knew from before his brother left for Stanford. They begged for some nameless solution, some magical fix that big brother would pull out of his bag of tricks. Dean looked away.

Instead he turned to Ben, still lying prone on the snow-covered ground, tears running unchecked down his cheeks. The kid looked a mess, pale and blotchy and all painful angles. He didn't resist when Dean bent, taking the ball from his limp grip. The terror-stricken moan he let out made Dean close his eyes.

When he opened them again, the redhead was watching him with naked desperate need on her face. She stepped forward, running up against the invisible barrier of the circle and flinching back, but it didn't discourage her and she tried again and again to step through. Her eyes were hungry, _starving_, fixed on his hand.

Dean stared at the ball in his hands; innocuous and small and fragile. He squeezed his eyes shut again and dropped it.

It hit the snow with a soft thud that shouldn't have broken it, and Dean was about to raise his leg to stamp the thing. But there was a crack running through it, slowly, fragmenting off into smaller spider web lines that shone with whatever white light was trapped inside it.

The woman screamed, agony ripping through the air like a whip. Halfway through the scream became tortured yelps, cut off short before they could express the depth behind them. Dean looked up to see a fox, tiny and fragile, pressing its body into the snow. Its eyes were open, rolling in its head, and its tail lay flat on the ground like an arrow behind it.

Sam was on his knees beside the thing, his hair covering his face. Droplets fell to the snow beneath him and Dean knew his brother was crying.

Sam reached out a shaking hand to it, running careful fingers over its head. Dean thought of the cat at Jim's, so long ago now, Sam's beautiful face as he held it.

And then it was silent.

No one moved, all eyes drawn to that small red thing limp in the snow like a splash of drying blood. The candles, still burning ignorant and uncaring, flickered as a cold breeze brushed through the yard. The smell of incense was sickening.

When Sam looked up, his red rimmed eyes met Dean's like they were drawn by a magnet.

They were as foreign and strange to him as the fox's.

"It wasn't the fox's fault." He said plainly. "It had to. Those were the _rules_."


	10. Epilogue

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) This takes place after 'Further And Further Out', so you'll probably want to read that first :)

Okay, this is the end… Hope you guys enjoyed the story, and feel free to skip the author's note at the end, it's a short explanation of the kitsune myth for anyone who doesn't know, and mostly for my own satisfaction :)

Epilogue

Sam was quieter now.

He still smiled, still touched anything that caught his attention, still stopped dead in the middle of a sentence and frowned in confusion because he couldn't remember what he'd been saying. But the pure childlike innocence from the past few months had disappeared after they returned to Pastor Jim's. Dean thought maybe this time it was gone for good.

He was lucid for longer stretches of time, like some tiny thing in his mind had been put back together, or maybe broken irreparably. Dean wasn't sure if he should be glad or not.

This new, more subdued version of less-than-sane Sam still seemed to want Dean though, still pushed his way into his brother's lap whenever he sat down and still curled up with his head on Dean's chest at night.

It was almost anticlimactic to return home from Montana two days after killing the kitsune. It didn't feel like a hunt successfully completed. Instead it felt like the return of weary travellers, all of them older and wiser and somehow humbler than they'd been a week ago.

John had come back with them for a few days. The scene Dean had envisaged of the four of them sitting around a fire with warm chocolate milk hadn't taken place, but then he hadn't really expected it to. Fantasies didn't come true for him. John had stayed as long as the fire in his veins had allowed him, but Dean could see the itch for the road eating at him and making his hands twitch. He left with vague promises to come for a visit in a few weeks. Dean had smiled wistfully and hugged him tight, knowing how it would be; another hunt, another phone call to say sorry.

"Dean, Jerrie needs more food." Sam slipped up behind Dean and spoke directly in his ear as he was washing the dishes in the sink. Dean jerked in surprise, nearly braining his brother as his head flew back. He wouldn't be admitting that the squeak came from him.

"Jesus, Sam! Warn a guy, would you?"

Sam just laughed low and sultry as he wrapped both arms around Dean's waist, pressing up against his back. Dean glanced at the door.

"Jim's gone out." Sam whispered, and for a second Dean's dick perked up. Until Sam noticed what he was doing, and then he found himself pushed aside in favour of Sam's favourite pastime. "Can I help?"

Dean huffed a laugh and waved his dripping hand at the sink. "Knock yourself out, Sammy." Sam grinned brightly at him and stuck both hands in the soapy water, swirling it around until the bubbles grew bigger.

Dean watched his brother, a small smile on his lips. He wondered, in moments like this, if Sam would have really chosen his sanity.

"Jerrie needs food, did you say?"

Sam looked up, his face thoughtful. "Did I? Maybe."

Dean quirked a lip. "I'll check."

They'd returned to Jim's to find the brown and white cat curled up asleep in Jim's easy chair. Dean had tried several times to make it go back to wherever it came from, but it seemed to have adopted them, and he hadn't the heart to take it to the animal shelter in town. Sam had been ecstatic. He'd announced that Jerrie wanted to stay with them, smiling big and petting the damn thing, all the while sending Dean pleading looks every few minutes with big watery eyes.

And that had been that.

"_Jerry? Sam, the cat's name was Tom, the _mouse _was called Jerry."_

_Rolled eyes. "I know that. It's shortened. From _Eliot_."_

_Frown. "Eliot? Who's Eliot? I thought its name was Jerry?"_

_Jim's surprised look. "I think he means T.S Eliot. Mungojerrie was one of the cats in a poem he wrote."_

"…_huh." _

Dean found it half-amusing, half-reassuring that his brother could remember _poetry _of all things. It gave him hope.

A wet soapy hand landed on his chest, leaving a dark handprint on his shirt. Sam grinned at him, leaning in to nuzzle under his chin. Dean closed his eyes, enjoying the caress.

"Sam, would you have chosen this?" The question was out before he even knew he was going to say it. He tensed, wanting to take it back. Wanting to block out Sam's answer, if he had one.

"Chosen what?"

"Nothing. Forget it. C'mon, let's dry up before Jim gets back. We can go get cat food, maybe some ice cream for after dinner."

Sam stopped him with a hand, his head cocked to one side. His lower lip protruded in the smallest pout, something he only did when he was trying to concentrate.

"Chosen…this? I had a choice." He frowned harder, like recalling was hard work. "If-if the fox hadn't…"

"Sam, it's not important." Dean said in a rush. "Just forget it, okay?"

"No, no, I want to…I wouldn't have…" Dean's heart sank and he felt sick. Of course Sam wouldn't have chosen this. Sam wanted his normal, wanted school and learning. Wanted a life that didn't make his brother the only safety he could rely on.

Sam leant in, catching his lips in a hard kiss. He tried to pull away, but Sam used his extra four inches of height to back him up until he was pinned between Sam's body and the wall. When Sam pulled away, it was to rest his forehead against Dean's. His hands had snuck under Dean's shirt, long fingers moving over his hips in a gentle caress like butterfly wings brushing his skin.

"I love you."

Dean jerked his head up. "What?"

Sam was smiling softly, his eyes wide and sincere. "I love you. 'Cause you take care of me, and you don't think I'm stupid when I can't remember stuff. And you buy me candy and take me to the park to feed the ducks and take me for rides in the car. I still loved you, even when the fox made my head work properly, 'cause you're my brother." Sam took a big breath after he'd finished speaking, looking pleased with himself.

"Sammy," Dean whispered, feeling his throat clog. "Sammy, brothers aren't supposed to love each other like we do."

Sam blinked and looked down, obviously thinking it through. Then he met Dean's eyes again with a shrug and a happy face. "Don't matter. I still love you."

Dean smiled at him, bittersweet.

"C'mon Sammy, let's get dry those dishes dry."

They worked in silence for a while, Dean drying the dishes and Sam putting them in the cupboards. The late afternoon sun shone through the big windows, making the dark wood of the cabinets and table glow warm and cosy. There was no snow on the ground outside and Dean thought he'd be glad never to see the damned stuff again.

"I wouldn't've gone away." Sam said suddenly, as if they'd been in the middle of a conversation.

Dean looked up, cocking his head. "What?"

"I wouldn't have gone away. If I got better. But you would have." Sam was blinking at him earnestly, trying to make himself understood. Dean frowned.

"Where would I have gone?"

"Hunting, like dad. You wouldn't think I needed you anymore. I don't want to get better if you have to go away."

A lump grew in Dean's throat, sore and aching like he'd swallowed without chewing. His eyes itched.

"I would've said no." Sam continued, a look of deep concentration on his face. "If the fox asked me, I would've said I wanted to stay here, with you and Jim and Jerrie. I'm sorry I didn't stay at the diner like you told me to."

"Sam…"

"The fox was my friend though. It didn't want to be mean, but it had to, 'cause those were the rules. But we won't see it ever again because it took its ball and hid in the snow." Sam said, his hair falling in his dark eyes. His face was all of a sudden strange and otherworldly, like a thousand year old mystic. Dean looked hard at his brother, wondering for perhaps the millionth time what Sam really knew, what he couldn't say because it couldn't be said in words.

After the fox had died they'd taken Ben Ellis inside. The boy had been trembling like he was having an epileptic fit and his eyes had been glazed. Jim had prepared warm milky tea for everyone, patiently ignoring John's request for black coffee instead.

Dean had gone back outside after drinking his to bury the fox's body and the remains of the glass ball. It felt _proper_, somehow, that the fox be put to rest like everyone else.

The body and the fragments of the ball had been gone.

As they'd driven out of the town the next day, Dean had noticed flashes of green on the tall pine trees, peeking out from under puffs of melting snow.

Sam blinked, and like a shadow falling away under the light, the boyish unlined expression of hope was back. "Can we get cat food now?"

Dean grinned, reaching out to squeeze the back of Sam's neck and pull him close. "Yeah Sammy. Let's go get the cat food."

A/N – I took a few artistic licences with the kitsune myth, the main one being the kitsune ball. In the stories, no one actually knows what the ball is for; a few say that it's a power source, which I've used it as here, but some say that it's a toy the kitsune carries around to play with (which someone actually suggested in a review :) ) Kitsunes are Japanese fox-spirits with godlike powers, so they can't actually be killed, but for the sake of the story either Ben or the fox needed to die, so I made up the part about smashing the ball to kill it (if it's really dead:) ) Also, kitsunes have their own moral codes and conventions; if someone took their ball they would offer something for its return, but if whoever didn't give it back, then they'd be honour-bound to get revenge or it would weaken them. Unfortunately Ben had no idea what he was dealing with, and so when the redhead/kitsune had coffee with him like he asked and he didn't keep his end of the deal, he managed to piss it off a lot without knowing what he was doing :) And they can't ask for help for themselves, which is why the kitsune had to kidnap John in exchange for Sam agreeing to help, so it would be a favour-for-a-favour kind of deal.

Oh, and the name Mungojerrie was taken from T. S Eliot's Old Possum's Book Of Practical Cats, if anyone was curious, and also I don't own that any more than I own Supernatural, so please no one sue me :)


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